


ribs

by mikeshanlon



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: ALSO there is romo ben/bev and bill/stan/mike on the side, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Friends to Lovers, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Modern AU, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, heavily inspired by the song ribs by lorde, is this cheesy? yes but hopefully in the best way, it's set over the course of their senior year of high school, like a lot of bed sharing LMAO, no pennywise but georgie is dead sorry lil dude, since richie is a stoner lmao, so like typical senior problems like fear of the future etc are a big part of the fic, this is a rewrite/repost from when i started it last year if you're like..... this looks familiar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2020-09-23 16:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 93,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20342821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikeshanlon/pseuds/mikeshanlon
Summary: // you're the only friend I needsharing beds like little kidslaughing 'til our ribs get toughbut that will never be enough //---Almost every time the lights turn off and they cram in the shitty twin bed, Richie seems to become a different person. Maybe not different, per say, but the stupid jokes and teasing die down, the guard of nonchalance dropping. Eddie feels lucky to see this side of Richie, soft and caring-- vulnerable. It’s not like he hates the other side of Richie, he secretly enjoys their constant banter and his dumb jokes. No, it’s that this side is rare, and it’s something beautiful. Here, safe in the soft flannel sheets, it feels like they are the only two souls for miles, and they can be themselves, and that is terrifying and reassuring all at once.“I’m gonna miss this. When we go off to college,” Richie admits, the weight behind his words telling Eddie he felt the same about their shared nights.“Yeah,” Eddie agrees softly, “Me too.”





	1. september

**Author's Note:**

> henlo dear reader! this fic was meant to be a oneshot but evolved into this... monster over time. essentially it's snapshots of eddie and richie + the losers club throughout their senior year, and is heavily inspired by ribs by lorde (which btw, who is not inspired by that masterpiece on a daily basis?). definitely recommend that you listen to that song, and if y'all want i can post the rest of my playlist later!  
if you first read this when i orginally posted it, i strongly recommend you reread, as i've added a lot and it's just... much better lmao. this first chapter is shorter than the others (or at least from what i've written/have planned) as it just sets up the story some!  
otherwise, i hope y'all enjoy this story, please feel free to leave kudos/comments here or hop over to tumblr and chat about it there, my url is stevesharrigton!

“It wasn’t _that_ bad.”

Eddie raises an incredulous brow, “_‘Wasn’t that bad?’ _I’m sorry, were we even at the same party? Richie, Bev _punched_ a guy. Their alcohol was shitty, and you smoked weed with some old _weirdo_\-- who I’m pretty sure has killed _at least_ one person in their life. I think Stan was throwing up in the bathroom before the police came and shut it down.”

“Again, I’ve been to worse parties,” Richie replies, sending an acorn tumbling down the asphalt as he kicks it. “At least the cops didn’t catch us, no thanks to you. Stood there like a deer in headlights.”

Eddie stops for a moment to collect himself, taking in a deep breath of the early autumn air before he loses it and screeches at Richie in the middle of the suburbs at one in the morning. It’s probably not a good idea to stop, since they’re walking down the middle of the road, but it’s not like they were being safe in the first place. Besides, it’s Derry. No one else is out this late.

“Excuse me for being scared about the _fucking police _catching me at a party riddled with underage drinking and other illegal activities.”

“That’s half the fun!”

Eddie rolls his eyes and continues forward, so fueled by frustration that his short legs carry him ahead of Richie. Then again, Richie is pretty fucking gone and walking in zig zags. “Now I have to walk in the freezing cold all the way back to my house, where there's a possibility my mom is waiting up to kill me for sneaking out.”

“It’s not that cold.”

Eddie looks back to where Richie’s casually strolling, dressed in jean shorts and a god-awful patterned shirt that looked like they could be the sheets on Chuck-e-Cheese’s death bed.

“It’s the middle of the night-- in fucking September dipshit!” Eddie snaps, flailing his arms before shoving them back into his cozy cardigan as soon as his hands feel the chill. “Maybe if you weren’t so fucking blind you could tell that _my breath is literally visible.”_

“I guess not all of us could be blessed with being so hot and sexy that it keeps us warm,” Richie quips, skipping clumsily until he’s caught up to Eddie. The fucking bastard winks at him once he plants both of his feet on the ground with a resounding slap against the pavement.

Eddie flushes slightly but ignores it and continues his rant, “On top of all that, I’m covered in sticky alcohol. Thanks for spilling your drink on me, by the way.”

He says it sarcastically, but Richie just grins, the way he does when he’s gonna make some idiotic sexual joke. Which means it’s the expression he wears 80% of the time. “My pleasure. I was sort of hoping it would get you out of them, but alas, fate is a cruel mistress.”

“Shut up Trashmouth,” Eddie grumbles and shoves him to the side lightly, but the combination of Richie’s lanky legs and the fact that they were weighed down by two beers, four shots of vodka, and whatever was rolled up in that murder tainted joint causes him to fall on his ass.

Instead of being pissed, Richie lets out a booming laugh and reaches out for Eddie with an outstretched hand. “Help me up, Eddie Baby?”

Eddie casts him a glance, Richie pouting up at him, puppy dog eyes and all.

“Don’t really feel like it,” Eddie finally answers and keeps walking, the orange autumn leaves crunching satisfyingly under his feet.

Richie stumbles a bit as he pops back up and says, “Ungrateful. I’m escorting you back home and this is how you repay me?”

Eddie whips around, “Escorting me? No, _you_ wouldn’t let me drive your car to the party!”

“I may be irresponsible, but I’m not gonna let you drink and drive,” Richie shakes his head, catching up to Eddie using his long, lanky legs, “You’re already a chaotic enough driver.”

“I’m a safe driver!”

“The Johnson’s mailbox disagrees.”

“Whatever,” Eddie scoffs, stomping on one of leaves, “I didn’t even get drunk. I took that one shot with all of you and that was it.”

“Ugh, c’mon! You were supposed to let loose! It’s our last year of high school,” Richie throws his arm around Eddie, pulling him closer, “Our last hurrah together in the shithole that is Derry, Maine. Live a little, Eds.”

The comment is innocent, but it strikes deep into Eddie’s chest. School just started a few weeks ago, so it might not feel like it, but in a handful of months they’ll graduate. And who knows what’ll be next for them. If they’ll ever see each other again.

Eddie dares to look up at Richie, who grins back at him. He watches the way the moonlight glares off Richie’s huge glasses and the brown bloodshot eyes underneath them, droopy from being high and the stress of working late on AP Calculus projects. How the frames slide down the curve of his nose and the freckles that call it home. Eddie would never admit it, but he has become an expert all things Richie over the years, mapping out every dip and crevice across his skin, to the contents of his very soul.

So, the thought of Richie, and all the things that make him who he is, disappearing from Eddie’s life in just a matter of months? It terrifies Eddie.

Obviously, he can’t say this, so, he does the only logical thing-- violently wriggles out from underneath Richie’s warm grasp and continues their verbal sparring match.

“I _am_ living a little, thank you very much. I don’t need to get fucked up to have a good time.”

“Yeah, you need to just get _fucked_.”

Eddie scoffs, though it’s partially towards himself for setting up such an obvious Richie joke without realizing it.

“Whatever, at least I don’t have a shit ton of unchecked sexually transmitted diseases,” he says.

“As if your mom would let me dick her down every night without being clean.”

“Oh my god, beep fucking _beep_, Trashmouth.”

Richie howls with laughter, throwing his head back. The weed and liquor in his system make him so delirious that his laughs become silent, tears forming at the edge of his eyes. Eddie looks around nervously to see if anyone is going to burst out of their house and yell at them to shut up.

Once Richie calms down, a comfortable silence falls over the pair, chirping cicadas and the sound of a distant owl the only sign of life for miles. Eddie cranes his neck up to look up at the stars twinkling above them, though his gaze is ripped away as he watches Richie try to walk along the yellow dotted lines. He moves over a bit so Richie can spread his arms out to keep balanced. It’s a miserable attempt because he’s inebriated.

He looks so stupid, and he’s being so stupid, so Eddie tries to focus on his sneakers, but then Richie giggles to himself, and the sound brings his senses right back to the taller boy.

Eddie’s so distracted that it takes him a minute or two to realize they’ve passed Richie’s street.

“Hey,” Eddie tries to get Richie’s attention, but the other boy is too in his own head. He smacks the outstretched hand that’s closest to him, “Hey, Rich.”

Richie lazily turns his head towards him, “What’s up Eduardo?”

“That’s not my name. You missed your turn back to your house,” he points out, nodding back a couple streets and slowing to a stop.

Richie pauses and lowers his arms, standing across from him. The streetlight behind him shines a yellow glow over his frame, almost angelic.

“Oh, come on Eds,” Richie smiles, taking a small step forward. “We do this too often for you to play dumb.”

Eddie’s cheeks turn as red as the solo cups that had littered the lawn of the house party.

Richie referring to sneaking into Eddie’s room late at night as a ‘_this’_, unfurled the knot of fondness in his stomach that had been twisting up all night. He knows there’s no intentional underlying meaning to Richie’s words, he’s intoxicated and just trying to tease Eddie. Besides, Richie climbing through the window and under his covers has become commonplace at this point. It didn’t _mean_ anything.

Yet, he struggles to find a response, Richie’s eyes glimmering with mischief and staring at him. A gust of wind picks up and sends the leaves rustling underneath their feet, blowing down the street. The chill brings him back long enough to let him return to their carefully crafted script, retorting with a weak, “Don’t call me Eds.”

Richie snorts, “See, you_ do_ know our routine! My feet are getting tired from all this walking though. You think when we get to yours, your mom can give em’ a massage?”

This is familiar. This is good. As good as Richie joking about his mom for the tenth time that night can be, at least. In fact, his brain gets working well enough to supply a thousand angry responses waiting to be spat out. But it’s still too much. It’s too hard for him right now to be truly pissed at Richie, and he can’t get wrapped up in another conversation with him. They’ll just end up at something that else that leaves Eddie blushing.

“Just shut up until we get to my room, idiot.”

Surprisingly, Richie listens and lets the conversation drop once more. He hums softly to himself as they stroll side by side. Eddie tries to place the tune Richie’s repeating but fails, figuring it’s some of his weird obscure hipster bullshit. Richie keeps accidentally walking into Eddie from time to time, giggling and bracing himself on Eddie’s shoulder, the pads of his fingers barely brushing Eddie’s neck as he steadies himself.

Finally, they make it to his house, the front lawn covered in red and orange leaves, turning from green to brown. He can see that the living room light is on and tenses up, but his mom often falls asleep watching evening game shows and soaps, so he prays that’s the case.

He motions Richie to stay put until he checks that the coast is clear, so Richie plops himself on the curb, resting his elbows atop his knees and tapping his feet impatiently.

Eddie carefully opens the side gate to the backyard, patting himself on the back for remembering to sweep before he snuck out so they wouldn’t crunch underneath his steps. He slowly opens the door off the kitchen, peeking his head in to see that his mom had, in fact, fallen asleep in her recliner, her grating snores and laugh tracks filling the house.

Doubling back, Eddie finds that Richie’s been keeping himself busy by doing the productive work of ripping apart his mom’s favorite flowers, and Eddie pokes his leg with his shoe to get his attention. Richie’s head snaps up to Eddie’s and he throws the shredded petals unceremoniously on the ground before following.

The door creaks the second time around, and Eddie cringes, watching in horror as his mom shifts slightly. Richie places a hand on Eddie’s shoulder and leans forward to catch a peek. A moment later, the loud snores begin again, and Eddie allows himself to let out a breath of relief before closing the door.

There’s some commercial for a sex hotline playing on the television, and Richie turns to Eddie with a wide grin and waggles his brows suggestively, opening his mouth to say something stupid. Eddie puts a finger to his lips to shush him, hoping that his intensely furrowed brows convey the severity of the situation. Richie frowns childishly before continuing their slow journey up the stairs and into his room.

Once they arrive, Eddie flicks the lights on, and Richie strolls in behind him, looking severely out of place in the neat and cozy bedroom. He moves past Eddie and flops onto the bed, immediately mussing up all the sheets. Eddie lets out a sigh as he plugs in his string lights and fishes out some pajamas out of his closet. He grabs Richie’s own spare pajamas out of its usual spot and tosses them over, hitting him in the face.

“I’m going to take a shower. Try to behave and be quiet,” Eddie warns as he picks up a towel.

Richie takes the clothes off his face to reveal a smirk, “Or what?”

“I’ll fucking smother you in your sleep, asshole,” he deadpans, leaving his door slightly ajar as he pads over to the bathroom to the sound of Richie’s laughter.

He shuts the door behind him and turns on the shower, listening to the pipes rattle and screech as the water warms. After shedding off his alcohol covered clothes, he brushes his teeth and combs through his hair, which has grown curlier over the years. His mother has given up on trying to make him keep it slicked back and neat, though he can tell it still annoys her. Good.

He steps in the shower, enjoying the way the droplets melt away the tension in his back and wash off the lingering anxiety of the night.

Eddie hates parties, not that he’s been to very many. They’re too chaotic, full of so many things that could go wrong and loud drunken teenagers. People his age are already awful when they’re sober and expected to behave decently at school. At least people are less inclined to push him around, now that Bowers and his friends have graduated, but he hears the whispers and feels the dirty looks. Sometimes, the absence of any sort of interaction is louder than anything else.

He really doesn’t have any other friends than the losers, and they’re all still each other’s closest friends, but they’re… Better at socializing. Better at letting go off all their anxieties and going with the flow. Eddie can’t do that. But he also doesn’t want to hold his friends back while he’s being a socially inept coward, so he encourages them to go dance and drinks and have fun.

That night, he watched as Bill, Mike, Bev, and Stan had played beer pong, cheering them on. It was fun, but then Ben whisked away Bev. He knew how much Ben liked Beverly, and had the suspicion Bev returned his feelings, so he wasn’t going to interrupt them. And he _definitely_ didn’t dare to go into the mass of sweaty teenagers grinding and making out that the other three boys had disappeared into.

Sometime after grabbing a soda from the kitchen, he found himself inadvertently trailing after Richie. First, the taller boy just kept passing through the spot where Eddie had claimed a part of the wall to lean on. He watched as Richie chugged a beer with some junior, and passionately sang along to whatever song was playing on the speakers, entertaining the small crowd that had formed.

Later, the heat of the party became suffocating, and Eddie needed to step away from all the noise, so he found himself wandering out back, where Richie was standing around with the skater stoner kids.

Richie had caught Eddie’s eye and smiled softly, sending him a quick wink before he took a pull from a joint. Eddie now flushes in the shower as he thinks embarrassedly at how that had knocked him off kilter, and that he had rushed back inside and ignored Richie’s nod of invitation to join the group.

Of course, Richie had ran into him again, when Eddie serendipitously found a chair to rest at. Richie tried to sit on the arm but lost his balance and spilled the rest of his beer all over Eddie. Reasonably, Eddie has screeched at him and then made his way to the bathroom, where Stan was throwing up and hadn’t quite closed the door all the way, Mike rubbing his back soothingly.

At his own back, Richie was trying to apologize for spilling his drink all over Eddie, but then they heard shouts that the police showed up. Eddie panicked and froze, so Richie grabbed his hand and dragged him through the house and out the back gate.

They’d ran a block before Eddie realized they were still holding hands. And that Ben, who was supposed to drive everyone back in Bill’s car, was gone and not picking up his phone. Thus, walking back home in the biting autumn chill.

Eddie finishes up his shower quickly, not trusting Richie to be alone in his state. He tugs on some shorts and his favorite sweatshirt—technically, it’s Richie’s that once found home on Eddie’s floor after a sleepover. It’s from one of the science camps Richie was sent off to the summers in between middle school. The edges of the sleeves are worn from Eddie always tugging it on, because it was big and warm, and because it reminds him of late nights spent laughing in his bed and dozing until early afternoon. Because, though he wouldn’t admit it, it reminds him of Richie, and makes him feel like the other boy is right there even when he’s not.

He grabs Richie’s spare toothbrush, which is an awful shade of fluorescent green. There’s no way Richie will remember to do it himself right now, or even want to. Eddie puts some minty fresh toothpaste on the bristles, extremely worn down and frayed from how furiously Richie brushed. Ironic, since his father is a dentist. Though, Richie would be the type to do it just to get a rise out of him. Either way, next time he went to the store to pick up meds he’d have to remember to buy a new one.

Walking back into his room, Eddie finds that his distrust in Richie was not misplaced. He had changed into the shirt Eddie had thrown at him but decided to just wear some boxers instead of the sweats. Beside him is an empty bag of sour gummy bears, the leftover sugar falling out onto the blankets.

“Heathen,” Eddie chastises, walking over and handing Richie his toothbrush.

Richie gives him a shit-eating grin, a piece of red gummy stuck between his teeth.

Eddie gags, “Ugh! Gross!”

Richie shrugs and rolls off the bed before brushing his teeth as he paces around the room. Sure enough, the boy is way too aggressive, taking ‘killing germs’ to a whole new meaning. Although, Eddie wasn’t sure Richie was cleaning his teeth well— it’s way too erratic and he ends up with half of the toothpaste outside his mouth, making it look like he has rabies.

Richie checks his reflection in the mirror hanging over the back of Eddie’s door and looks back to him, catching him watching. A smirk grows on his face. “Naughty, naughty mind, Eddie.”

Eddie raises a confused brow before realizing that Richie thought he was thinking of something else, something entirely inappropriate. In response he picks up one of Richie’s sneakers, which are _this_ close to completely falling apart, and lobs it at him, eliciting a cocky laugh from Richie as he rushes out the room to spit out his toothpaste. Eddie instantly regrets touching it though, remembering how gross and stinky Richie is, and immediately squirts on some hand sanitizer.

He cleans up the bed and settles under the large pile of warm and fuzzy blankets, his back up against the wall. A few moments later Richie returns, turning off the lights, leaving only the moonlight to illuminate the bedroom.

Richie slides in beside him, taking off his glasses and setting them on the end table. It’s silent for a moment, and then Eddie feels Richie’s toes poke his own feet.

“Thanks,” Richie whispers, shifting so that they’re facing each other, “For letting me stay.”

Eddie nods, shimmying further under the covers so half his face is hidden. Almost every time the lights turn off and they cram in the shitty twin bed, Richie seems to become a different person. Maybe not different, per say, but the stupid jokes and teasing die down, the guard of nonchalance dropping. Eddie feels lucky to see this side of Richie, soft and caring-- vulnerable. It’s not like he hates the other side of Richie, he secretly enjoys their constant banter and his dumb jokes. No, it’s that this side is rare, and it’s something beautiful. Here, safe in the soft flannel sheets, it feels like they are the only two souls for miles, and they can be themselves, and that is terrifying and reassuring all at once.

“I’m gonna miss this. When we go off to college,” Richie admits, the weight behind his words telling Eddie he felt the same about their shared nights.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees softly, “Me too.”

Richie smiles, “Maybe not the fact that you hog all the fucking blankets, but yeah. I’ll miss it.”

“It’s my bed!” Eddie responds, but there’s nothing angry in his tone.

“And you snore.”

“Shut the fuck up, no I don’t.”

Richie props his head up with his hand and scoots an inch closer, “Yes you do. But it’s a cute little snore.”

He uses his other hand to boop Eddie lightly on the nose, and it scrunches up at the contact. Eddie’s glad half of his face is covered by the blankets, because he can feel his cheeks burning up.

“So cute,” Richie grins.

God, Richie must be more gone off the weed and alcohol than Eddie had originally thought.

“Yeah, well, you’re always hitting me with your fucking octopus limbs in the middle of the night.”

“Octopus?”

Eddie nods, “You’re always moving around in your sleep and wrapping your arms and legs around me.”

There’s a beat, as a sly smile spreads over Richie’s face, and then suddenly, the little space left between them on the twin bed is crossed by Richie as he leans forward and lies on top of Eddie.

“Get off, dickhead,” Eddie struggles to say, the weight of Richie on his body cutting off his air. He closes his eyes and tries to push him off.

Richie is laughing hysterically and narrowly avoids Eddie kneeing him. He obliges, and at the loss of contact Eddie opens his eyes to see Richie hovering over him, a hand braced on the headboard. Eddie tries to catch his breath, and so does Richie from laughing so hard. It’s hard though, for a different reason, when he’s hyperaware of how their legs are entangled, the way Richie’s other hand rests on top of the skin where Eddie’s sweater had ridden up as they moved around. Time feels suspended as Eddie watches the way Richie’s pinkish lips hang slightly open before returning to meet the gaze of brown eyes.

Somehow, it’s both far too long and far too short, but Richie grabs a fistful of blankets and rolls off Eddie, settling back to his side.

“Night Eds.”

Eddie blinks back at him, his brain still trying to process the moment they just shared. Was it even a moment? Whatever transpired, it made Eddie feel both anxious and good at the same time, like staring down the edge of the cliff at the quarry before jumping off into the cool water and letting it wash over him. He’s unsure what to do with the weight in his chest, and the fact that his brain is going too slow and too fast at the same time. It’s exhaustion. The party and walking home and being around Richie. It was too much and he just needed to go the fuck to sleep.

“Night Richie.”


	2. october

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all! so sorry for the long break between chapters, life's been p hectic but i hope 18.8k of pure chaos and a side of tenderness will make up for it! which, speaking of, this chapter is kinda bonkers, there's a lot of scenes with all the losers and i have worms in my brain so enrglnrgrg. hopefully shit will be more balanced next chapter!  
BIGGGGGGGGG ol' shoutout to maggie and claudia, whom have been endlessly supportive and patient and amazing and i love them!!!!  
tw: minor panic attack, minor mention of alcohol consumption, edibles, and the start of Eddie's ree press shun and internalized homophobia Journey.  
also i swear not every chapter had like drug/alcohol use erglknlgneg!!!!!  
Thank you for all the love you've given this! :) enjoyyyy

Eddie hates being messy. Most people do, but the deep seeded childhood trauma caused by his mom makes it a thousand times worse. Halfway through his freshman year, he still carried his fanny pack full of wipes, band-aids, and pills, despite learning that his mother had been deceiving him the prior summer. It was security, albeit false, and it was routine. Besides, he couldn’t just ignore all of the information about germs and sicknesses that had been crammed into his adolescent brain. The only reason Eddie had gotten rid of it is because Richie suggested it. That maybe holding onto it was keeping him from getting over everything.

Since realizing his mother’s manipulation, Eddie has loosened up some, less likely to rattle off disease statistics or get nervous about having a bite of his friends’ food. It does help, somewhat, to not have his arsenal at his disposal. But unlike Richie thought, there’s no way to completely undo the abuse. Like the inhaler at the bottom of his backpack, in his possession ‘just in case’, even though he never had asthma in the first place. Sometimes, when one of the losers will grab his hand or wrap him up in a hug, he freezes, because who knows how many germs they could be carrying? When they hang out at the quarry, or on the lawn during lunch, and he gets dirt on him, his skin will crawl all over for a while. And he’s still forced pick up pills for himself and his mother, only to flush his down the toilet as soon as he gets home.

Despite this, there’s something about fixing cars and getting covered in grease that thrills Eddie. It smells awful, makes him sweat, and leaves him with pinched fingers, but there’s a sense of control. Though the problems or modifications can be complex, Eddie is able to isolate all the parts in his brain and understand what the causes are. He can channel all his energy into figuring it out and actually _fixing it_, pushing away the anxiety and self-doubt that comes with his real-life issues. When it’s done, it’s done, and any lingering problems can be righted once more.

Unfortunately, his mother only let him get a license for emergencies, meaning Eddie can’t get his own car or even drive hers, so the only chance he gets to fix up one is when one of the losers needs help. Fortunately, Richie’s station wagon is an old piece of shit and always needs something done to it.

He’s working on the engine in Richie’s garage, the autumn breeze from the open door keeping the back of his neck cool as he tinkers under the hood. Richie is playing his brash alternative music through his shitty phone speaker, but it’s kind of nice, in a familiar way.

A drop of sweat from his forehead drops onto his grease covered hand, and he grabs another tool from the red metal box before going back in, determined to finish.

“‘Ello Edward!” Richie greets as he walks back in, adopting his horrible British accent, “Doth thee care for some fine beverage?”

“I have multiple tools capable of murder currently at my disposal. Please fucking stop with the British guy,” Eddie warns, stepping away from under the hood and wiping his hands with a towel.

Richie grins, handing him a bottle of cola, “Ah, but do you really want the last words I spoke to you to be from the British guy?”

“Knowing you, it’ll probably happen anyways.”

“Probably,” Richie shrugs, chugging down some of his orange soda, “So, how goes the twelfth resurrection of my sweet, sweet Muriel?”

“I think she keeps trying to off herself because of that horrible name,” Eddie quips, “But it’s going fine. I’m almost finished.”

Richie frowns. “You were the one who wouldn’t let me name her Fluffer Nutter!”

“Because it’s stupid Richie!”

“You just have bad taste,” Richie sits down on the ice chest, scooting back so he can lean against the wall.

Eddie continues his work, listening to Richie blab on about some kickback he went to the other weekend. Something about him and Mike getting so high that they tried to convince everyone they were identical twins, or something, and that he wishes Eddie came, that he could’ve the look on everyone’s faces. After Richie’s talked the life out of that subject, Eddie listens to his raspy voice sing along to the music.

That’s another thing to add to the ever-growing list of shit Richie does that Eddie’s going to miss if they part ways after graduation. He can’t imagine not hearing his rendition of _Friday I’m In Love_ every week, whether it be in the car on the mornings when he picks Eddie up or during lunch, yet somehow still manages to fuck up the lyrics after all these years. (Sometimes, it’s on purpose. “_I don’t care if Monday’s whack, Tuesday, Wednesday, my dick is faaat, Thursday, who gives a fuck about that? It’s Friday and Eds is snaaaack” “So your dick is only fat on Tuesday and Wednesday?” “Shut the fuck up Stan”). _ He tells Richie it’s annoying as hell, but usually cracks a smile anyways. It’s the same when they’re studying at Ben’s, Richie singing to himself and tapping his pencil against his book. It used to disturb his focus and grate on his nerves, but now it has just become a constant in his life, a soundtrack filled with innuendos and swears.

He is _so_ accustomed to it that when Richie’s been too silent for a couple minutes, Eddie quickly notices.

Setting down his tools, Eddie looks over at Richie. “You’re quiet. Why?”

Richie startles, blinking out of the unreadable expression on his face. “Nothing.”

Usually, Richie tells him the truth, or at least some stupid joke, but whatever is on Richie’s mind must be serious if he can’t even make up an excuse.

“Really, _nothing_?” Eddie asks, his left eyebrow raising in doubt as he wipes the grease off his fingers. Richie eyes follow the motion before he nods slowly and takes another sip of his soda. Eddie walks a couple steps until he’s in front of Richie and crosses his arms. “Don’t bullshit me, Rich.”

“Fine, fine,” Richie places his soda down and puts his hands up in surrender, “I was thinking about starting a side hustle. One of those sexy calendar things, y’know? June is Mike, the hot, strong country farmer boy, and you’re our cute, shy, virginal mechanic—”

Eddie groans, “Ugh, beep beep. If you don’t want to talk to me about it, _fine_.”

“No, seriously! In fact, lemme snap a few right now,” Richie pulls out his phone, “The ladies of Derry are gonna go wild for all that grease and sweat. You won’t be able to keep them off you.”

“Gross,” Eddie says sharply, trying to shut down the conversation. He turns his attention back to car so he can finish his work. Hopefully Richie’s dense fucking brain can take a hint for once.

It’s pretty commonplace for the losers to poke fun at each other, Richie and Eddie especially, but for some reason the joke hits a little harder than usual. Maybe because Richie obviously isn’t being honest with him. That he derailed a serious conversation to mock the fact that Eddie is still quite boyish in comparison to the rest of them. That Eddie is inexperienced. Not that he really wants to kiss or… do things with girls anyways, but still. What the fuck ever, it just grates on his nerves today.

Of course, Richie does _not_ take the fucking hint. “C’mon Eds, pose! Give me something saucy.”

He sticks his middle finger out from under the hood.

“Ooh, some attitude. Now show me pensive.”

Eddie moves to march over and throw Richie’s phone into the engine fluid, but then Mrs. Tozier steps out into the garage.

“Hi boys, how’s everything going?”

“Fine,” Richie replies curtly, setting down his phone next to him.

The chaotic energy of Richie’s antics is sucked out of the room. Being tuned into all things Richie, it isn’t very surprising that the boy’s demeanor quickly changes around his mom. Their relationship is nothing like the one Eddie has with his mother, or Bill with his parents. In fact, they love Richie, and try to support him as much as possible. But there’s… a disconnect. As much as she may try, Richie’s mom doesn’t really _understand_ Richie. He’s loud, silly, and— A Lot. Eddie likes that about him, but sometimes it can be too much for Mrs. Tozier to handle. Over the past couple years, Richie dials it down a bit when she comes around.

“Hey Mrs. Tozier,” Eddie cleans his hands of the grease thoroughly.

“Eddie, nice to see you again. I just came to bring you boys some cookies.”

He thanks her and takes one. It’s a little too salty, and they didn’t quite rise correctly, but it’s still gooey chocolate, so it’s good.

“It’s the least I could do, seeing as you keep fixing up Richie’s car. Saves us a bunch.”

Richie reaches forward and grabs two cookies for himself, shoving one in his mouth and speaking around the food, “Eds is already paid by getting to spend time with me.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and starts putting away his tools. Mrs. Tozier sticks around, looking between the two boys.

“What’s up?” Richie asks.

“Just thinking about how much you two have grown. Feels like just yesterday you guys were just graduating from elementary school. This time next year you guys will be off at college.”

Eddie nods tersely. Their post high school lives already take up enough mental real estate in Eddie’s anxiety ridden brain without their parents reminding them too. Richie shifts uncomfortably in his spot.

“Have you decided where you want to apply?” Mrs. Tozier continues. God, Eddie would rather listen to Richie’s fucking awful Scooby Doo impression for a week straight than deal with the small talk adults insist on having.

“Sort of. I think I’m going to stick to the East Coast, but I’m not sure if I’m gonna stay in Maine.”

Mrs. Tozier nods, “That’s good, branching out but not too far away from home. I’m sure your mother will appreciate that.”

Eddie gulps. He really doesn’t want to think about his mother’s opinions on where he’ll go to college.

“But you still have a little time. I mean, Richie’s still figuring out where he wants to go—”

“Yup!” Richie cuts her off, standing up and brushing the crumbs off his lap. “But first I gotta make sure I pass high school. And I can’t do that if my car’s not working. Thanks for the snack mom, but Eddie’s gotta finish up.”

His mother pauses and nods before sending Eddie a tight smile and leaving the garage. Eddie narrows his eyes at Richie’s odd behavior.

Richie doesn’t seem like he’s going to provide an explanation, so Eddie lets out a dramatic sigh and closes the hood of the shitty car. “Try starting the engine, Trashmouth.”

The other boy clambers into the driver’s seat and turns the key in this ignition, making the engine roar to life… Or as alive as it can be.

“Wow! It doesn’t sound like a cat got stuck inside the dryer anymore!” Richie says excitedly. He meets Eddie’s eyes and finally seems to notice how pissed Eddie is at him. He looks at him sheepishly before sliding over into the passenger’s seat, patting the now open spot. “Why don’t you take Muriel out for a spin. Show her a good time.”

Eddie’s fingers itch to get behind the wheel. He drives Richie’s car often enough, but it doesn’t make whipping down the Derry streets any less exhilarating.

“You sure? I didn’t think you were in a very kind and sharing mood.”

Richie reaches for his hand and gently pulls him into the car. “I didn’t mean to be such a dick, honest. I’m just… Stressed.”

Eddie nods slowly, empathizing. He understands breaking under the weight of it all, and senior year has brought a lot of pressure already. Part of him feels like there’s something Richie isn’t telling him, but he’ll just have to trust that if Richie needs to, he’ll come to Eddie.

“Okay. You can bring me some coffee next time you take me to school to make it up to me.”

“From Stan’s bougie ass work?”

Eddie nods in confirmation.

“Ugh, cue the wailing cry of my wallet weeping,” Richie laments, “But deal.”

Satisfied, Eddie slams the door shut and shifts in his seat. The bench of the old car isn’t adjustable, which usually isn’t an issue when Eddie rides shotgun, but it poses a bit of a problem now that he needs to reach the pedals. For the tall and lanky Richie, it’s a good fit, if not a little cramped, but Eddie has to be closer to the edge of the seat. Richie reaches in the back seat and grabs one of the extra blankets he keeps and folds it up so that it acts a pillow for Eddie’s back.

“Not a fucking word.”

Richie closes his lips and makes suppressed noises, the joking words fighting to escape the confines of his mouth. Eddie flips him off and changes the gear into drive.

He doesn’t let Richie play any of his music in favor of rolling the windows down and letting the occasional sounds of suburbia drift into the car over their companionable silence. Well, one of the back windows is already stuck half open because Eddie still hasn’t quite figured out how fix it, and Richie keeps drumming his fingers on the side of the car where his arm hangs out the window, but it’s peaceful in that Eddie’s so accustomed to it anyways.

Soon they drive past the neighborhoods and downtown, then over the kissing bridge, where Derry turns more rural.

“Let’s go fucking turbo Eduardo!”

“I thought you said I’m ‘too chaotic of a driver’.”

Richie shrugs, “Maybe. But I also want you to loosen up some.”

He wants to argue that he doesn’t need to but, deep down, Eddie knows he does. It’s probably fucking dumb and reckless, but he decides to put a little more pressure on the gas pedal and grips the steering wheel tightly.

Richie shifts a little closer to watch the speedometer, and soon the yellow fields are whizzing past them, the wind blowing Richie’s hair everywhere and making Eddie’s oversized t-shirt billow around him.

When the speedometer reaches 89, Richie grips his bicep in excitement and lets out a whoop.

Eddie jumps at the touch, “Don’t fucking grab me or we’re going to crash, dipshit!”

Richie moves back to his spot, but stretches his legs across the bench, so that his feet rest on Eddie’s lap. It makes Eddie tense up for a moment, but he relaxes when they hit 90. The car is shuddering beneath them, but Eddie feels exhilarated as they speed down the roads, further and further away from their homes and all the responsibilities he’s floundering under.

He lets himself grin, teeth and all, and cheers.

Richie smiles too, and tilts his head out the window and yells, “That’s fucking right! Eddie Kaspbrak is the _motherfucking shit_!”

Eddie laughs wildly, because it’s fucking stupid nonsense, there’s adrenaline is coursing through his veins-- and Richie’s screaming his name, and it fills his chest with something that can’t be named.

Richie joins him, coming out as more a cackle, and Eddie shouts, “Fuck yeah!”

They fly past a sign; the one Eddie knows says that the exit out of Derry is only a handful of miles away. And for a moment, he lets himself think of the two of them driving out of Derry, leaving everything behind. From his suffocating mother and school, the impending decisions of their future that are demanding to be made. That they could circumvent those, say fuck it, and just keep going. This fantasy version of just him and Richie, carving their own mark into the world together.

But it’s just that—some alternate fantasy that he really shouldn’t entertain. He doesn’t even know why he thought of it in the first place.

Eddie slowly returns to a normal speed and pulls onto the dirt shoulder. He puts the car in park, but doesn’t move, not to take the keys, with all the fucking stupid keychains Richie’s put on them, out of the ignition. He can’t. He’s frozen and on the edge of a panic attack.

“Hey,” Richie says softly, leaning forward and squeezing his wrist lightly. “You okay?”

Eddie forces out a shaking breath, and nods. “You wanna drive back?”

Richie pauses, torn between pressing further or not. Eventually he removes his feet from Eddie’s lap and gets out of the car so they can switch places again. Eddie moves into the passenger seat and brings his legs up unto the seat, so he can hug his knees. He rests his cheek atop them, watching as Richie turns the car back around.

The quiet that hangs over them is not as comfortable as it was before. Part of Eddie wants to blurt out why he’s panicking, because even though he’s embarrassed, he knows he can trust Richie. That whatever he says to him in the shelter of his car will stay there. Hell, Richie would probably think the idea was cool, talk about hypotheticals, all the place they’d go. How they’d pick up souvenirs for the losers and take a million pictures and make the best memories. Then it’d just be another one of Richie’s crazy schemes that eventually gets forgotten by the end of the week. Besides, he can’t even get the words out if he wanted to.

He can tell Richie’s concerned; although he tries to hide it by draping his arm over the steering wheel in feigned nonchalance. But his brows are furrowed, and the glances he keeps sending Eddie are full of worry. Eddie tears his eyes away and shifts so that he’s looking out the window.

He tries not to think about anything, focusing on the way his knees are knocking into his face as the engine rumbles and they drive over the bumpy roads. Eddie starts playing music in his head, that one melody Richie’s always humming, and lets himself zone out at the tress blur past them, most of them turned yellow and red by now. Eddie figures Richie’s dropping him off at his house, but he drifts back into focus eventually, and realizes they’re making their way through the middle of town before Richie parks.

Richie could’ve—maybe should’ve, given how weird Eddie’s acting—just taken him home and be rid of the problem. But apparently, he can sense that Eddie needs to be with someone right now, to be with _him_.

Eddie sends him a grateful smile, small, but it’s enough to make Richie’s face break in relief.

“C’mon, Ben told me they put up that mini pumpkin patch today,” Richie says, getting out of the car, and jogging around the side to open Eddie’s door. “I know how much you love the hot apple cider.”

Something in Eddie’s chest warms at that, and he gets out the car, stretching his cramped muscles for a moment.

It’s crowded, so they have to walk to the town square, where every year Derry sets up a pumpkin patch complete with a stand for festive food and games for little kids to play. Eddie vaguely remembers going with his father before he passed. There are pictures of him hugging a huge pumpkin with a big smile plastered on his face in one of their old family photo albums. He never really went afterwards, his mother not wanting to take him, but in the recent years the losers usually make a point to kill some time there at least once.

“Ah, good ol’ Pauly Bunyan,” Richie looks up at the unsettling statue that towers over the square as they walk past it. “Sexiest guy in Derry, after me of course.”

“You’re a fuckin weirdo. And full of it.”

“Oh really? Fuck, marry, kill, Derry edition: Paul, Mr. Keene, and me,” Richie slides his glasses down his nose, looks at Eddie over them, and winks.

Eddie grimaces. “Kill myself, definitely.”

Richie barks out a laugh, “Eds gets off a good one.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie admonishes. “Wait… do you think Mr. Keene is _sexy_?”

“Eugh, that crumpled ball of creepy foreskin? No, I was giving you a pretty obvious kill choice.”

“So you just wanted to hear me say that’d I’d—” He cuts himself off and swallows thickly.

Richie grins and cups a hand around his ear, “That you’d what? Want to _maaaaaaarry_ me?” he sings songs childishly, and then waggles his brows, “That you’d want to fu—”

“Okay, beep beep, Trashmouth! That’s enough,” Eddie’s face is on fire, and he’s so distracted he almost walks into a scarecrow staked into the lawn. “Y’know, it really doesn’t bode well on your looks if you’re putting yourself up against a repulsive dickwad and an inanimate object.”

Now Richie’s the one floundering, and Eddie drinks that in with smug satisfaction all the way to the concession stand.

Honestly, Eddie didn’t think it would help that much, but Richie was right in bringing them here. The comforting taste of warm, spiced apple cider helps lift his spirits as they meander around the lawn, checking out the pumpkins.

Richie picks up a mini one and shows him, “Looks just like you. Short and cute.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and moves through the patch until he finds a misshapen oval one, with dents and warts all over. “And here’s your look-a-like.”

Richie snorts at that and sits himself atop one of the bales of hay that surround the pumpkins, patting the spot beside him. Eddie’s feet dangle embarrassingly over the edge, and the pieces of straw aren’t very comfortable to sit on, but it’s somewhere to rest.

“Bev’s gonna be mad we’re sitting on Haystack and he still hasn’t even had the balls to ask _her_ to homecoming,” Richie jokes, taking a couple pictures of them before sending them to the losers’ group chat.

Obviously, he doesn’t deign such a stupid joke with a response, but he privately agrees that Ben should really just ask Beverly out already. Everyone already knows how gone he is for her, and Bev is always so happy around him. Plus, she’s being dropping major ‘hints’ about wanting to go the whole week. It’s probably hypocritical, because even if he knew someone liked him, he would be nervous to ask them to a dance. He wouldn’t really know _how_, not that he’s given it a lot of thought. Eddie didn’t like dances and there was really no point unless he had a date, and no one’s asked him (though that’s a given), plus, he doesn’t even like anyone.

He supposes the girl could always ask, like how Bev had asked Bill to winter formal in sophomore year, saying that those patriarchal norms were stupid and outdated whenever someone cracked a joke about it. Though, on the off chance a girl _did_ ask him out, Eddie is pretty sure he’d have a panic attack and use his overbearing mother as an excuse. But, in some abstract way, if he just pictures the person as some formless blob, he thinks he might like being asked. That he’d enjoy the thoughtfulness and romance that comes with it.

At least, that’s how it would be if Ben finally asked Beverly. Once, Eddie was copying some notes from him after being forced to stay home by his mother, and noticed love poems in the margins, one’s about fiery hair and pale blue eyes. He’d probably be the type to throw around a bunch of rose petals and have candles and all that shit. Mike would be similar, making his own bouquet of flowers from his farm. They’d probably be more private about it. Bill, maybe, would be the one to do the whole classic grand declaration, the whole asking in front of everyone with a sign thing. He could write or draw something cool and clever, and it’d be much better than the one that happened in front of Eddie’s locker the other day. That was gross. Bill would certainly be able to rope the six of them into helping, at least, as long as he got past being all flustered about his crush. Stan would probably just go up and ask, no nonsense.

Nonsense. If Richie ever asked someone, it’d probably be pure nonsense. Loud and standing on the table in the cafeteria with some dirty innuendo that got him detention and banned from going to the dance anyways. But Richie’s not really the type to go to the dance with someone. If he goes, he might make out with some random behind the gym-- if he’s lucky-- and then never see them again. He’ll _brag_ about it to the losers constantly, but he’s never really... Gone into the territory of having a crush and wanting to ask them out, so Eddie doesn’t have much to base his assumptions on.

Eddie wonders that if Richie really ever was serious, that maybe it wouldn’t be some attention grabbing, off the wall joke. Maybe it’d be like when they’re in his room late at night, exposed and almost tender. Something from the heart.

“Eds, you’re thinking so goddamn loud it’s giving me a migraine,” Richie rips Eddie from his thoughts. “And you’re going to end up shoving that whole cup into your mouth.”

He stills, realizing he’d been gnawing on the lip of the styrofoam cup the entire time. He embarrassedly stacks his cup into Richie’s and crosses his arms. “Am I thinking too hard or do you just not have a lot going on up there?”

“Oh, you know it! I got two brain cells dedicated to dreaming about Mrs. K and you in those little short shorts.”

“Two is a little generous, I think.”

A minute passes before Richie lightly nudges Eddie to get his attention. “Seriously though, whatever’s bothering you, whatever that was in the car back there…” Eddie swallows nervously as Richie tries to choose his words for once. “You can’t let yourself get too caught up in it. Don’t let that shit control you, Eds. Just enjoy the moment, and fucking _live_ in it, y’know?”

Maybe Richie’s right. Maybe he shouldn’t focus on how much he’s going to miss these moments and just appreciate them, hold onto them now while he has it.

“Okay. Maybe you have two braincells after all. You would’ve had three, but you called me Eds, even though I’ve _told you a million fucking times—_”

Richie just laughs as Eddie rants, throwing his arm around his shoulder.

\---

The problem with trying to live in the moment is that Eddie’s mother is suffocating and delusional, so there’s not a lot of moments for Eddie to live in. If she had it her way, he’d be stuck in their house forever like some damsel in distress locked away in her tower. Though, instead of prince charming or a knight in shining armor, he’d get a lanky hormonal dumbass coming through his window to do shitty impressions, forgetting to save him altogether.

Still, he had somehow convinced her to let him go to the homecoming game tonight, after a week of sucking up and doting on her. She was still hesitant, but after promising not to stay out too late or be irresponsible or ogle the cheerleaders (_ha_), she relented.

Currently, she’s crowding him by the front door, trying to get him to throw on another jacket over his three layers, afraid he’ll catch a cold up in the bleachers in the October chill.

“Ma, I’ll be fine,” Eddie sighs, ducking away from her.

“Eddie bear, you need to be safe and warm!”

The sound of a car honking outside interrupts her worrying, and relief washes over him.

Eddie grabs his house keys off the front table, “That’s my ride. I’ll be back later.”

His mother frowns, “Sweetheart, maybe you should just stay home. It’ll be more comfortable, and I really don’t like those… those _deviants_ you call friends—”

Eddie groans inwardly. Not this argument again.

“They aren’t deviants, Ma.”

As if on cue, the honking starts up again, but Richie’s spamming the horn now, resulting in an erratic and infuriating rhythm. Eddie had told his mom that Bill was picking him up, since she sort of likes him at least, but there’s no way she believes that now. Her fierce glower is confirmation of that.

Before she can say anything, Eddie darts forward and gives her a kiss on the cheek, “_ByeMaGottaGoLoveYou.”_

He dashes out the door at lightning speed, ignoring her yelling. Richie’s got an arm out the car window, grinning like an idiot and chewing his gum obnoxiously.

“You are _such_ an _asshole_,” Eddie hisses as soon as he’s close enough.

Richie blows a bubble and pops it with his tongue. “Can’t help it, you just look so adorable when you’re pissed off.”

Eddie makes his way to the passenger door, but Beverly’s already in the front seat. Right, he’d forgotten the two of them were going to spend the afternoon together.

“Hey Bev.”

“Hi Eddie,” she smiles, “Sorry, did I take your spot?”

Eddie shrugs, opening the door behind her seat, “I don’t mind sitting in the back. Just means it’s easier to tune Richie out.”

“_Suuuure_. You can always sit on my lap if you’re jelly, my dearest Eddie.”

“Jealous is already two syllables, dumbfuck,” He gets into the backseat and slams the door, crossing his arms. “And I’d rather drink battery acid. This car is already enough of a death trap. Can we just go before she comes out and kills me? Or you?”

“Oh, I already die in her arms every night,” Richie says, making a crude gesture and pulling a weird face, eyes scrunched closed and lips parted open.

Bev pushes his shoulder lightly and puts her feet on the dash, “If Eddie’s mom doesn’t murder you, I will. Drive, Trashmouth.”

Mercifully, Richie stops and changes gears, almost hitting their trashcans as he turns the car around.

In the seat beside him, Eddie notices craft supplies and a sign. _Keep “Hangin’ Tough” Hanscom!!!! _Written in blue, with a gold glittering heart.

“I like the sign, Bev.”

“I helped,” Richie says immediately.

“No, you didn’t, you just sat there and talked about alien conspiracies for, like, an hour.” Bev turns her head around to face Eddie. “But thanks. I dunno if it’s sort of lame but…”

“He’ll like it,” Eddie reassures. Maybe he’d like it too much, getting distracted to play properly.

Not that Eddie is overly invested in the fate of the football game. He’s only been to one other game in his high school career, when Mike and Ben first joined the JV team, and they didn’t even get to play. Now, though, the two boys were on varsity, and gotten pretty damn good at playing. At least, that’s what Bill and Stan said. They’ve been to every game this season.

Eddie doesn’t understand the hype, since he’s not into sports, nor does he possess a lot of school spirit. He wears his hoodie with the school mascot on it a lot, but that’s because it’s comfortable.

Still, he wants to spend time with his friends and support Mike and Ben, and _maybe_ it could be sort of fun. He’s kinda just written off the typical high school activities as boring and dumb, a complete waste of energy. Classes already take up too much of his time, and honestly, he never really felt welcome. Now he slightly regrets not having the cliché high school experience, of football games and parties and crushes. Like he missed out on something, just like his whole life he’s been missing out on something because of his mother. Maybe, because of himself.

It’s a bit too depressing of a thought to have, though, especially when Richie and Bev are currently screaming the lyrics to _Fergalicious_.

“_My body stay vicious, I be up in the gym just working on my fitness, he’s my witness!” _Beverly is all up in Richie’s space, pointing her finger aggressively to the lyrics.

Richie cups his hands around his mouth, “_OOH WEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”_

Eddie laughs and shakes his head as they continue. Richie slows to stop at an intersection and whips his head around, pointing at Eddie to sing the next line.

“_Baby baby baby, if you really want me, honey get some patience, maybe then you’ll get a taste,” _Eddie sings, albeit embarrassedly, but Richie seems satisfied, smiling and turning around when the car behind them honks.

“Can’t they fucking see we’re busy doing something important?” Richie shouts, throwing a middle finger out the window. Then he launches into the rap as he speeds down the streets.

Eddie feels lighter when they pull into the school parking lot, though he might just be delirious from laughing too hard and being wrapped up in Beverly and Richie’s infectious energy.

The bleachers are crowded, which is not too surprising considering it’s the big homecoming game, and there’s nothing else to do in Derry. Eddie’s kinda worried they won’t be able to find Bill and Stan among everyone. He pulls out his phone to text them and ask where they are, but Richie just steps over a group of friends in the front row and yells, “Billiam, Staniel, where the _fuck_ are you?”

Bill reluctantly stands and waves them over to their spot by the marching band. Eddie feels awful as they make their way through the metal steps, the player’s parents glaring at Richie’s foul mouth. He wants to apologize on Richie’s behalf, or say that he would never act that way, but it’s not worth it.

Eddie ends up between Stan and Richie, which is nice because they’re shielding him from the wind starting to pick up. He props his feet up on the bench in front of them, trying to get comfortable.

“Thanks for that Richie,” Stan’s eyes narrow, “Really subtle.”

“Oh no, did I just fuck up your reputation with the other football wives?” Richie mocks, slinging off his backpack and setting it in his lap. “No one’s going to eat your dish at the next potluck?”

Stan flips him off and stuffs his hands into his jacket, looking back out on the field. Actually, it’s Mike’s varsity jacket, and it swallows his significantly smaller frame. Somehow, with that and his usual preppy button down and khaki get up, it looks nice on Stan, the blue complimenting his golden curls. Bill’s got on Mike’s away jersey under his own blue flannel. Eddie’s pretty sure that’s a thing football players do with their girlfriends or crushes or whatever, so he doesn’t really get why they’re wearing it. Maybe because they come to every game, and Mike gave it to them for being such supportive friends. Suddenly, he feels very underprepared and shitty, because they’re all dressed up and Bev has a sign for Ben, but he didn’t bring anything.

Richie must pick up on it, because he nudges him and says, “Don’t worry your pretty little head Eds. I was thinking we could take off our shirts and paint Ben and Mike’s numbers on our stomachs—”

**“**No fucking way Rich, do you wanna get hypothermia?”

“Only if you’re my nurse. I’d like a _real_ thorough sponge bath.”

Stan huffs, “Oh my god, I’m banning you from making sex jokes for the rest of the game. I can’t deal with this.”

“What?! That’s like, the majority of my repertoire! Do you just want me to be silent the whole fucking time?” Richie asks incredulously.

“That sounds perfect actually,” Stan nods.

“This is lunacy! This is censorship! You are robbing me of my personality Stanny Boy!”

“You can’t have much of a personality if it’s all based on mediocre dick humor.”

Richie leans over to address Bill, “What’s up his ass? I know it can’t be your wang—”

Stan swats at Richie.

“Tuh-Tuh-Technically the game hasn’t sss-started yet,” Bill points out, much to Stan’s annoyance. “We just really want Mikey—and Ben—to win. They got a lot of shit from the team last year, but they really have ch-chance this time, and it’s mostly because of them. If they win, they can prove those jock assholes wuh-wuh-wrong.”

Spite. That gets Eddie slightly more invested in the stakes of the game.

The players start trickling onto the field, and the crowd thrums with excitement, cheers of ‘let’s go boys!’ and enthusiastic clapping coming from the stands. Eddie whistles with his fingers, and Richie tries to mimic him, failing miserably. Mike sends them one of his signature grins and a thumbs up before he puts on his helmet. Ben waves, awkwardly, though he seems happy to see them.

As the game starts, Eddie finds himself a little lost, paying more attention to the way the sun is starting to set, painting the sky with beautiful soft pinks among wispy clouds.

“Why aren’t they passing the ball to Ben?” Eddie asks when he’s actually watching the game, offended on Ben’s behalf.

Bill chuckles, “He’s a linebacker, Ed.”

“Do I look like someone who knows what the fuck that means?”

“He’s defense,” Beverly explains, “He protects whoever’s holding the ball and stuff. Fits him pretty well, I think.”

“It’s so cute when Eddie’s oblivious,” Richie ruffles his hair. It’s annoying, because Eddie spent a lot of time getting his curls to look just right, but he can’t find it in himself to be mad, liking the casual touch.

“Like you’re the paragon of football knowledge, either.” Stan quips.

Eddie furrows his brows, “Pair of what?”

“Anyways,” Richie puts on his British guy accent, “I know plenty about _football_, or what you Yankees call ‘soccer’.”

“If Stan can ban innuendos, can I ban voices?” Bev asks.

Eddie nods, “I second that notion.”

Richie ignores them, stretching out his legs and bumping his feet against Eddie’s. “Listen, I get the gist well enough. You spike the ball and then if you can get it past the goalie you get a home run, and the. Crowd. Goes. WIIIIIIIIIIILD!”

“Those were three different sports, and none of them were football,” Stan says.

“Whatever,” Richie shrugs, “I’m here to look at the cheerleaders and those butt pads.”

Eddie shifts uncomfortably, only noticing that he was looking at the latter as well once Richie mentioned them. He shifts his attention to the cheer team, who are trying to hype the crowd up as their team inches closer to the end zone. “Not much to look at. Seriously, who let Gretta be captain? She can’t even reach her toes and keep her leg straight.”

Bev snorts, playing with the key around her neck. “Maybe all her comments about me spreading my legs were just her being jealous.”

“I thought we established that a long time ago babe,” Richie threw his arm around her. “You are the baddest bitch in all of Derry.”

“Why, of course I am!” Beverly reaches to grab his hand that’s draped over her shoulder.

“And I’m a close second.”

Bev raises one of her perfectly plucked brows. “Are you sure? You trip over your own shoelaces constantly, can’t dress, and,” She squeezes his face and turns him towards Eddie, features all smushed, “Have such an ugly mug.”

Eddie can’t help but laugh, and Richie makes a kissy face at him. “C’mon, Eddie my love, you think I’m pretty, right?”

“Pretty…” Eddie repeats, his brain deciding to short circuit, which is just fucking great. Seriously, Richie looks so fucking dumb, there’s a hundred insults he could pick from, but ‘pretty’ renders him useless. What the fuck. His brain only supplies him with something on par with a defensive third grader. “Pretty _stupid_.”

“Oh wow. I am wounded,” Richie withdraws from Bev’s grasp, throwing the hand she was holding over his chest, “Shot my fucking heart out, Eddie Spaghetti. I don’t think I can ever recover from such a deep and _ruthless_ insult.”

“Holy shit,” Bill says, bringing them out of their bubble and reminding Eddie that he’s there to watch the game. “They’re gonna ssss-score.”

Eddie returns his attention to the field, where their team are just 15 yards from the end zone. Underneath his breath he’s chanting “_C’monC’monC’mon”_, as they start the play, and Mike gets the ball. Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie can see Bill reach out for Stan’s hand. Mike dodges the other players, with help from Ben blocking and tackling, and scores.

The losers shoot up from their seats, and Eddie stands on top of the bleacher, jumping up and shouting. Beverly raises her sign above her head, waving it wildly. They are surely overreacting, if the weird looks they’re getting from people are any indicator, but Eddie can’t find it in himself to care.

Another play is set up, Ben’s gaze lingering on them a little too long, enough that the coach yells at him to get into position. Beverly laughs brightly and Eddie grips on to Richie’s shoulder as he hops down.

Now that they’ve gained momentum, Mike and Ben continue playing fiercely. Mike is sprinting across the artificial grass, twisting around the other players and doing a little shuffle whenever he scores. Despite his usual tranquil nature, Ben has a lot of fire bubbling underneath the surface, especially emboldened by the losers’ encouragement, and he taps into it while blocking the rival team from scoring. By the time half time rolls around, they have a decent lead.

Once the team heads back into the locker room, the homecoming court begins their procession. Eddie honestly doesn’t remember who was on the ballot, because they don’t interact with him anyways, and because Richie’s in his second block and kept distracting him when they were voting.

Gretta Keene and Peter Gordon end up winning, surely the work of threatening the student body with making their year hell if they didn’t vote for them.

“Boooo!” Eddie yells, and Richie throws both his middle fingers up, waving them at the pair while they pose for pictures. Beverly howls with laughter.

As the marching band begins their performance, Bill and Stan get up to go grab some food.

“Ah, that reminds me,” Richie fishes through his backpack, and pulls out a bag of hot cheetos and lime juice. “Zee main course for zee evening mademoiselle,” he adopts his ‘French’ accent. It, like all his other accents, is a very poor imitation, and his attempt at recreating their vowels just makes him sound incredibly drunk.

Bev reaches into the bag throws a handful into her mouth.

“That’s what you’re eating for dinner?” Eddie grimaces.

“It’s zee finest cuisine Edgard,” Richie pours a generous amount of lime juice into the bag and shakes it up. “Don’t you just wanna wife me up now?”

Eddie shakes his head, “With the way you ‘take care of yourself’,” he puts in air quotes, “Your health insurance would be even more inflated than _mine_.”

**“**Bold of you to assume I’d have health insurance in the first place. Fuck big pharma, amiright?”

Richie procures some chopsticks out of his bag and uses them to grab a bundle of Cheetos.

“Why the fuck are you using those?” 

“Because then I don’t get the dust all over my fingers, which is like, the best part, but I figured you’d say I was gross and to get my disgusting hands away from you, so I thought ahead.” Richie explains, offering the bag to Bev again. “But apparently you’re going to bully me for considering you.”

Huh. Weird, but surprisingly thoughtful. “Whatever. You’re still ruining your body with all that sodium and Red 40. Y’know that shit is awful for you?”

“Yes, you’ve told us, like, a billion times,” Bev replies, “But all I know how to do is be sexy, eat hot chip, and lie, so.”

Richie laughs, but Eddie doesn’t get it, so he just turns his attention to the marching band performance. One of the color guard members almost drops their flag.

“Hey, do you guys think I should try to chug the rest of this lime juice?” Richie asks suddenly, inspecting the bottle.

“What?!” Eddie screeches, “_No!_ Obviously no!”

Bev sighs, “Jesus Richie, I swear to god. You are such a _teenage boy_.” She says it like it’s some revolting, immoral thing. She’s right, especially in this case.

“Okay, but do you dare me to?”

“No! I already said no, you fucking dipshit!” Eddie’s arms are flailing around as he shouts. 

“I mean, if you insist,” Richie grins, throws his head back and squirts the lime juice into his mouth.

Eddie immediately gags and rips his stare away. “Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. That’s disgusting. You’re actually so disgusting holy shit.”

Beverly gapes abject horror, and then seems accepts that this is Richie she’s hanging out with and continues eating.

Richie’s face scrunches and contorts at the taste of the pure lime juice, “Fuck, that’s sour.”

“No fucking shit Trashmouth!” Eddie yells, “Oh my god, you’re pouring like, unconcentrated acid into your stomach. The lining is going to sustain permanent fucking damage and like, fucking break down and you’re gonna throw up _everywhere_—”

Richie goes in for another shot of lime juice, ignoring his ranting.

“Your stomach is like the world’s worst virgin margarita mix right now,” Bev jokes, laughing as Richie begins to cough.

Bill and Stan return then, looking between the three curiously as they sit down.

“Do I wanna know?” Stan asks, folding out a napkin on his lap.

Bev shakes her head, “No.”

“I’m chugging this lime juice because Eddie dared me to,” Richie says, and then unfortunately demonstrates.

“I did not fucking dare you! I told you not to! Several times!”

Stan’s nose wrinkles with disgust, and Bill sends him one of his judging looks. “Isn’t tha-that super s-sss-sour?”

“Oh yeah, I’m definitely killing all my taste buds right now. At least I’ll be able to kiss Eddie’s mom without vomming tonight when I drop him off.”

“I thought I said no sex jokes,” Stan warns.

“Yeah, and look where that got him,” Beverly says, gesturing to Richie, who is _still fucking drinking the shit_. “He’s completely lost it.”

Richie licks some juice remaining on his lips, “Also, I said _kissing_. Oh, shit, do you still think sex is a special hug between two people who love each other very much?” Stan rolls his eyes and takes a sip of soda he bought at the concession stand. “I mean, I figured you were past the ‘two’ thing—"

“Do _you_ still think doing stupid shit for attention and pulling someone’s pigtails like an inept fourth grader is a good way to express your feelings?” Stan snaps.

Richie’s cheeks turn red, his brown eyes glancing at Eddie before focusing on Stan and narrowing. He crosses his arms, wrapping them around himself. “Fuck you.” It comes out as just a mumble, but there’s enough bite behind his voice that it concerns Eddie.

_Well_. He has no idea what the fuck that’s all about, but Richie’s leg is starting to bounce in anger. Eddie’s eyes dart between the intense scowls the two are sending each other and lets out a deep breath. He puts shifts a little closer to Richie and puts his hand on Richie’s knee to calm him, and Richie instantly stills beneath his touch.

“Can I try?” Bill asks, trying to cut the tension and reaching his hand out for the bottle. Stan breaks his glare-off with Richie to send Bill a look of betrayal. “What? I’m c-curious now.”

“If you want to be feeling like shit at the dance later, then go for it. But I did warn you.”

Bill takes that information in, but since he’s more brainless than Eddie’s childhood hero worship of him wants to admit, he ends up taking the lime juice from Richie. His face immediately twists up, and he spits it out onto the bleachers.

“Boys,” Bev’s upper lip curls in disapproval.

“Ha!” Richie laughs, “Couldn’t even handle a little bit. I’ve had almost half of the bottle.”

Stan hands Bill a napkin, “That’s really not something you should be proud of.”

Richie sticks his tongue out but mercifully gives up on trying to chug the whole thing and tosses it back in his bag. He seems to be over whatever the hell that was with Stan, but whatever it was, Stan made his point.

After that abhorrent chaos, the rest of the game is much calmer, at least in the crowd. Eddie still doesn’t totally follow what’s going on in the game, but Bill groans in frustration a couple times, and a group of guys who Eddie’s pretty sure graduated a couple years ago are yelling down at the field. The third quarter is rough, but the team finds their footing again.

Eddie yawns loudly into his hand and Richie laughs softly at his disinterest in the game. Maybe it would be better if the bleachers had a back to the seats and the metal didn’t make his ass so sore from sitting on it for too long. He shifts a bit, closer to Richie, and leans his head on the other boy’s shoulder, hugging one of Richie’s arms with his own.

“You tired?” Richie asks, voice quiet in comparison to the rowdy crowd as their team fumbles the ball.

Eddie nods, “A lil’. Mostly, I’m bored. And chilly.”

“Even with all those fucking layers?” Eddie shifts to send Richie a look of annoyance for his comment, but Richie just smiles back fondly. “Yeah, okay, whatever. Feel free to use me as your human furnace.”

Ultimately, the experience is not what Eddie was expecting, on either end of the spectrum. It’s not a total vapid shitshow, and no crazy fights on the bleachers, but it’s also not the magical, energetic experience it’s made out to be in teen rom coms. No one has a kiss so romantic that its power ends a drought with a rainstorm, nor is the final few seconds full of tension over whether the underdog team will win or not. Actually, Eddie almost misses their team scoring the final point, but mostly because Ben and Mike were on the bench at the end of the game, and there was a comfortable enough point margin that it was pretty much guaranteed they’d win.

(And _maybe_, because he was focused on Richie, how warm he was and how nice it felt to be tucked into his side).

It’s just… perfectly fine. Obviously, he was bored most of the game, but he’s proud to see Mike and Ben win. Honestly, he mostly enjoyed soaking up the time with his friends, even if Richie is an agent of chaos who seemed to be actively trying to make Eddie go into cardiac arrest before he legally becomes an adult. He feels dumb for putting all these expectations on it, that he’d thought he missed out on some essential part of youth by not going to school sanctioned sport event. 

They meet Ben and Mike on track surrounding the field after the game, and he even allows for a very sweaty Mike to pull him in for a bear hug, even though it makes him cringe. But it’s _Mike_. He can’t deny the human embodiment of joy a hug after he won the homecoming game.

“I’m so happy y’all came!” Mike beams at them, throwing his arms around Bill and Stan and pulling the pair close. “And I’m glad we won. It would be pretty embarrassing if you only saw us not play and then lose.”

Ben nods in agreement, “Thank you for the, uh, sign, Beverly. It’s very nice.”

“Of course. Did it help motivate you to… come right back? To be rough?” Her voice is teasing, like it’s some inside joke, but Eddie doesn’t understand it. She sends Ben a wink.

Ben chuckles, looking flustered, and suddenly very interested in staring at the ground, “Yeah. Yeah it did.”

“Oh my god, I can’t sit through this nerdy ass _New Kids on the Block_ foreplay any longer,” Richie ruins the moment, which he really has a talent for. Eddie wants to point out that Richie’s the one who picked up on the reference in the first place, but refrains.

Beverly flips him off as Ben chuckles awkwardly. “You can keep it if you like. But we gotta take a picture together with it first.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’d like that,” Ben looks at her like she fucking hung the starts in the sky. It almost hurts to look at.

Beverly hands Eddie her phone to take the pictures, and Ben puts his arm around her waist. His face is tomato red, and Eddie’s sure it’s not because he’s tired after the football game.

Similarly, Mike asks one of their teammates to take a picture of the seven of them with his polaroid, which Bill held onto during the game. They take a few, Richie insisting on being dumb and ruining the picture by grabbing onto Eddie and Bev or making crude gestures. Stan chews him out for wasting the expensive film, and finally they take one that’s decent, though Richie still has his arms draped over Eddie’s shoulder.

Eddie jumps to volunteer and take some pictures of Stan, Mike, and Bill, overwhelmed with how… _touchy_ Richie is tonight. He needs a breather.

They end up having to take a few pictures too, because Bill and Stan keep staring at Mike and his radiant smile, and Stan and Mike keep sharing glances and trying not to laugh. He supposes it’s less of a waste if Mike doesn’t mind, and they seem to be enjoying themselves anyways.

After chatting for a few more minutes, Bill, Mike, and Stan excuse themselves, heading back home to quickly get ready for the homecoming dance. Ben has a ticket too, but he lingers behind, staying close to Beverly. Eddie and Richie share a knowing look.

“Yeah, I might not even go anymore,” Ben says, “It won’t be fun without you guys.”

“Bill, Mike, and Stan are there though,” Eddie points out.

Ben shrugs, not tearing his eyes away from Beverly, “It’s not the same. I wish you guys would’ve bought tickets.”

Richie inhales sharply beside Eddie, rocking back on his feet. “Oh boy,” he stage whispers, though the other two aren’t even paying attention to them anyways.

“Well, I _would’ve_ gone if I had a date,” Beverly says, her voice dripping with passive aggression.

“I, uh, thought you liked to be the one asking.”

Bev crosses her arms. “Maybe I wanted to be asked. But it’s too late for that now.”

Eddie winces, suddenly wishing he was anywhere but here. Contrarily, Richie seems to be reveling in the tension, giving Bev a thumbs up.

“Listen, just… go to the dance, okay Ben?” Beverly says, her tone softer, “Have fun.”

Ben looks conflicted, glancing between Beverly and the parking lot, and sighs. “Yeah, okay. Maybe next dance. Let me know when you get home safe, okay?”

They watch him walk off to the parking lot, and once he’s out of earshot, Bev sighs, rubbing her forehead. “Shit.”

“Hey, y’know, think of the quality emo poetry he’ll be writing tonight,” Richie says.

“Not helping Trashmouth,” Bev snaps. “Ugh, I didn’t mean to make him feel like shit.”

Eddie pats her shoulder. “I’m sure it’ll be fine Beverly; it was just a stupid argument.”

Beverly doesn’t look too convinced, nervously fiddling with the key around her neck.

“Let’s get out of here,” Eddie suggests, starting to make his way back to Richie’s car.

“No,” Richie declares, bringing his hands together with a resounding clap, “I have a better idea.”

Eddie’s brows furrow deeply. “You don’t have good ideas in the first place.”

“Okay, rude,” Richie scoffs, “But I’ll still let you come along since I like you so much. We should sneak into the dance.”

“_What?!”_

“Hold on,” Bev puts a hand up in an attempt to stop Eddie’s meltdown, “That might actually be fun.”

Richie looks pleased. “Hell yeah! Bev gets it! I mean, it’s a school dance, so it probably won’t be _fun._ But, there’s just _something_ about dancing to _Low_ with a bunch of horny, sweaty, teens under neon lights while your teachers look on in horror, y’know?”

“I don’t, actually, because I haven’t gone to any dances,” Eddie snaps. “Did you forget my mom is _insane_? She thinks the music they play has secret demonic messages that brainwash developing minds, and that I’d, like, immediately contract chlamydia from breathing in the air--”

“_I mean…_”

Eddie shoots Richie an angry look. “Listen, I’m just saying, if she found out I went without asking, _let alone sneak in_, I’d be dead. Like, pull me out of school, throw my phone in a bonfire, bar my windows, only keep me alive enough for her to keep yelling at me kind of dead. You said yourself it’s not even fun. Not. Fucking. Worth. It.”

“She wouldn’t find out. Richie and I skipped P.E. all the time sophomore year and never got caught, so we know the perfect way to get in,” Beverly tries to reassure him. It’s not very reassuring, as it only makes him wonder how they even passed, or that surely the universe will get its revenge for their bad behavior on the one night he’s involved.

Richie can tell it doesn’t work, though Eddie’s sure his face isn’t exactly hiding his apprehension anyways. He throws his arm around Eddie and starts to lead them behind the bleachers. “Listen, we’ll be fine. I got you. And it beats sitting around in your room the rest of the night and staring at the ceiling.”

“What makes you think that’s what I’d be doing?”

Richie gives him a long, level look. Oh. Right. Most of the nights Richie sneaks into his room, Eddie’s doing just that. Totally not pathetic at all.

“Ugh, fucking _fine_,” Eddie groans, sticking his hands into his jacket.

Bev grins and hugs them both. “Yes! We don’t have to stay super long, okay? Just a few songs.”

He nods. A few songs. Eddie can totally handle that.

Richie cuts behind the girl’s locker room, “Ah, don’t you just love it when Eds goes all ‘fuck the rules’?”

“Don’t fucking call me that, shithead. And I still need to be home by 10:30.”

“_Shh_, don’t ruin this for me.”

He leads them to the pool, which is closed off by a metal fence.

“There’s a door right off the back of the gym into there,” Bev explains.

“Okay, but how do we get into the pool?”

“We climb over the fence,” Richie crouches down and holds his hands out. “C’mon, I’ll give you a boost.”

Eddie gawks up at the weirdly intimidating height of the metal bars and scoffs. “Oh, fuck this. No way.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s really only fair that you have to climb and flail your limbs everywhere for once, considering.”

Bev looks intrigued, tilting her head and parting her lips to ask a question, but deciding against it. She opens her mouth again, putting her hands on her hips, “Well, he doesn’t have to—”

“Yes, he does. C’mon.”

Eddie steadies himself by holding onto fence as he tries to step on Richie’s outstretched hands, but since Richie’s a fucking idiot and doesn’t support Eddie, he almost stumbles back down. Richie ends up just picking up Eddie in the most uncomfortable way, lifting him up by his midsection as Eddie scrambles for purchase on the metal bars so he can lift himself up.

“Don’t let me fucking fall Richie, I swear to God!” Eddie screeches, his foot slipping. Bev does a poor job of stifling her laughter.

“Maybe if you weren’t acting like a rabid squirrel on crack, I could get a better hold on you!” Richie shoots back.

“_Rabid SQUIRREL?!—” _Eddie echoes incredulously, but his rage fucks up his focus and he almost falls, forcing Richie to grab for him to make sure he doesn’t slam into the pavement. Unfortunately, Richie ends up grabbing his ass. Eddie lets out an inhuman yelp.

“Sorry, sorry! Just _fucking_—” Richie grunts as he pushes Eddie upwards, so that he can finally swing his leg over the fence. “Holy shit, I think I just lost like, five years of my life. This was not worth it.” 

Eddie jumps unceremoniously over the side, narrowly avoiding stumbling backwards into the pool. He lets out a huff and brushes his hands off on his jeans. “Fuck you. Let’s see if you and your noodle limbs can do any better.”

“I don’t need to,” Richie smirks, which isn’t a good sign, “The gate isn’t locked on your side.”

It takes a moment for the comment to register, but Eddie tries the gate. When it swings wide open, he feels it’s as if he blacks out and then blinks back into reality, overtaken by some primal rage.

“So. You’re saying… That you could’ve hopped the fence instead of me?” Eddie clenches his fists at his side as Richie strolls in, whistling.

Richie nods, “But I mean, wasn’t that fun? Now you can say that you’ve hopped a fence before. Pretty cool, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say he _hopped_ it,” Beverly says, closing the gate gently behind them. “He barely made it.”

Eddie can’t even acknowledge the slight, because he’s too pissed at Richie. “Pretty cool? _Pretty cool! _Oh my god, you are such a dipshit! What if I had broken my arm or cracked my head on the pavement and my _brains _leaked out of my skull and went everywhere or—”

“Dude, it’s not _that_ high up, you’re just short.”

“Fuck you, don’t call me short!”

“Hey, idiots,” Bev steps between them, “If you two keep yelling at each other, we’re actually going to get caught.”

That pulls Eddie out of his rage state effectively, but not before he leans into Richie space and hisses, “I’m going to fucking drown you in this pool later.”

Richie, the little shit, just grins.

An exasperated sigh escapes Bev’s lips as she leads them to the door, trying the knob to see that it’s locked. Eddie is about to take that as the final sign that they should _definitely_ stop trying to sneak in, that they’re going to get expelled or something, but she pulls out a couple bobby pins from her hair and starts to pick the lock.

“Oh, shit, _what_?!” Richie exclaims, getting closer to watch her work, “Are you seeing this shit Eddie?”

“Officially, no, because that’d be aiding and abetting.”

Bev snorts. Richie is literally breathing down her neck. “How’d learn to do this Bevs?”

“_Why’d _you learn to do this?” Eddie adds.

"A girl always needs to know how to get up into some trouble every now and then,” Bev smiles conspiratorially, a twinkle her blue eyes. “And troublemakers don’t reveal their secrets.”

After another moment and a faint _click_, she tries to open the door once more. This time it slowly creaks open, unveiling the horde of their hormonal classmates under a wash of shitty colorful lights.

Richie cradles Bev’s head in his hands and brings her close, giving her a sloppy kiss on her forehead. “God, I love you, you beautiful bastard.” As much as Eddie has the urge to look away, he can’t tear his gaze away from the exchange.

Beverly grins and playfully pushes him away, then goes to wipe her face with the back of her hand. “C’mon dumbass, we wasted enough time.”

They walk carefully into the gym, but Eddie lingers outside in the doorjamb for a second, feeling sort of awkward. There’s a weird feeling bubbling in his chest, but it’s not anxiety over the possibility of getting caught. He feels so out of place, and he can’t stop thinking about the kiss Richie planted on Beverly, his hands at her cheeks. It wasn’t like _that, _at least Eddie didn’t think it was. _(Hoped it wasn’t)_. But it made him feel weird. Richie turns his head, looking back at him expectantly, and presses his hand on the small of Eddie’s back to guide him across the threshold and into the dance.

Firstly, Eddie notices how fucking disgustingly humid the small room is in comparison to the biting chill outside. He feels like he just stepped into a rave taking place in a sauna, all cramped and weird smelling. It’s too stuffy and sweaty, especially for the amount of layers Eddie has on.

That’s the second thing Eddie notices. Everyone else is donning dresses and heels and nice shirts, but he’s wearing a well-loved sweater under a denim jacket and sneakers. 

“Shit, we’re so underdressed,” Eddie groans as they shuffle around groups of friends standing awkwardly.

“Speak for yourself,” Bev spins around, showing off her baby blue dress.

“God, we get it, I’m ugly, you always look good,” Richie says. That weird feeling creeps under Eddie’s skin again. “Can you go kiss and make up with Ben now?”

Bev tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to suppress a smile. “We are _not_ gonna kiss, Trashmouth. But I should go find him.”

“Yeah, yeah, stay safe!”

Beverly flips him off as she parts ways from them, soon disappearing from Eddie’s sight among the other bodies.

“Let’s go find the others,” Richie says, taking Eddie’s hand in his own before leading him through the crowd.

After almost getting elbowed in the face and seeing some things no person should ever have to see on school property, they find Stan by himself, scrolling through his phone. He looks nice, though he usually wears button downs on a normal day anyways.

“Stan the Man, so funny seeing you here!” Richie comes up behind Stan, making the other boy jump out of his skin.

Stan whips around, eyes full of fury. Yeah, Eddie can relate. “Shit. What are you guys doing here? I thought you didn’t buy tickets?”

“Still didn’t. We snuck in. As if I’m going to pay ASB any fucking taxes!”

“Whatever, if you get caught, I have no idea who you are,” Stan shakes his head in disapproval. Richie pretends to look wounded, probably about to jokingly wax poetic about disloyalty, but Eddie cuts him off.

“Where are Mike and Bill? They didn’t ditch you, right?” Eddie asks, standing on his tiptoes in an attempt to spot them.

Stan points to the mass of grinding bodies in the middle of the floor. Suddenly, Eddie appreciates his lack of height. “No, they’ll be back soon. I just can’t deal with all the… lack of hygiene and discomfort.”

“Didn’t you dance with them at the party last month?”

“Yeah, but I was pretty drunk, and it’s… different here. Besides, can you imagine getting caught by your ninth grade English teacher?” Stan shudders.

Richie’s eyes widen, and he searches the room, “Shit, is she here? That’s like, a fantasy of mine.”

Stan stares at him blankly. “… I’m hesitant to ask if you mean mine or yours.”

“Yours, _duh_.”

Eddie gags. “Isn’t she super fucking old and wrinkly?”

“Uh, yeah, and a total G.I.L.F!”

“G.I.L.F.? What’s that?”

Stan slaps his hand over Richie’s mouth, “Don’t you dare answer that question.”

A couple minutes later, Mike and Bill emerge from the mass of people, the latter clinging to Mike’s side. Bill’s auburn hair is all messed up, slightly damp with sweat, and Mike’s button up is disheveled, the top few buttons undone and exposing his collar bone. 

Once the pair reach them, Bill hugs Stan from behind, wrapping arms around his middle and resting his head on the other boy’s shoulder. “H-hey guys!” Bill grins, a sing song quality to his voice, the words slightly slurred. He either doesn’t remember that they weren’t going to come originally or doesn’t care.

“You’re drunk,” Richie says, instead of saying hello like a normal, well-mannered person.

“I’m only tipsy. Stan and I h-had a couple s-ssshots of tequila before the dance.”

Richie gasps, “Stanley, how _could_ you! Why do you only drink with them and not me?”

“Because I trust them not to rope me into some dangerous drunken scheme,” Stan replies, threading his fingers with Bill’s over his stomach. Richie pulls an offended face, as if Stan accused him of murder, spat in his food, and pushed him down the stairs before he even got to eat it. But he has good reason to distrust Richie, other than just … literally everything about him. Eddie still remembers how scarred Stan is, how all of them are, over the Frog Incident of Junior Year.

Those poor, poor frogs.

“Really? They’re not dangerous? I mean, look at the bruises on Mike’s neck,” Richie teases, pressing his finger deeply against the fresh hickey that’s blooming at the base of his neck. Mike winces slightly at the contact. “_Someone_ out there was happy you won the game.”

Mike and Bill chuckle softly, but Eddie sticks his hands in his pockets, suddenly interested on observing how the lights dance across the wooden floor. Eddie feels a bit childish, but he can’t help but feel kinda embarrassed at how blasé Richie is about talking about this shit. It’s different than just his normal slew of dick and sex jokes, because it’s a reality this time, at least for Mike. He’s reminded of how inexperienced he is, and maybe he’s a bit jealous Richie can joke like that without feeling his skin crawl. Eddie just doesn’t get it, doesn’t see the appeal of having some girl dance on him, not even in a situation that his own mother was sure would make him lose control.

Really, the whole time him and Richie were weaving through the crowd, Eddie only focused on his hand touching Richie, the way he guided Eddie and turned back at him with a smirk. Any glimpse of what would make any normal teenage boy get excited, just made Eddie avert his eyes.

So… _Yeah_.

He stays quiet as the other four boys chat, stuck in his own head, only speaking to greet Ben and Beverly once they join the group. Thankfully, they both look much happier than they did on the field earlier in the evening. If nothing else, Eddie’s glad they snuck in so the two could smooth things over.

“Hey, we didn’t break in for us to just stand around,” Bev says, nudging Eddie so lightly he almost doesn’t notice, and starts to sway to the music.

Bill, in his intoxicated state, agrees immediately, and untangles himself from Stan. He jumps into Eddie’s space and seizes his hands, waving them around crazily. Inspired by their de facto leader, the others begin to dance as well, Richie roping in Stan, and Mike joining Ben and Bev.

Eddie tries to move around, but he’s overwhelmingly insecure about dancing in front of everyone, including any of their peers that might be watching. It’s different than when he’s dancing along to his favorite pop songs in the privacy of his room, bouncing around with frenetic energy. His body doesn’t know what to do with itself, and Bill’s aggressive and somewhat… _loose_ dancing is a lot for Eddie to handle.

Out of all of them, Mike dances the best by far. He saves Eddie from Bill, helping him find a nice groove. Mike grins as Eddie begins to feel his muscles start to relax, “Ay, yes Eddie!”

He starts to feel more comfortable, with Mike as his guide, and it helps seeing how stupid the rest of them are being as well. Stan is shuffling almost unnaturally, laughably different to how Bill tries to pull him close and roll his hips. At one point, Richie gets in between Ben and Beverly and starts to twerk on her. He looks more like a cat heaving before it throws up, the way his back is moving, but Bev seems to be having fun, laughing wildly. Ben doesn’t look quite as thrilled.

Eventually, Richie makes his way over to Eddie. His approach is somewhat similar to Bill’s, intertwining their fingers and bobbing around, though Eddie feels much more relaxed. It’s all very Richie—silly, and loud, and exuberant. He’s screaming the lyrics at the top of his lungs (_DON’T TAKE ME TONGUE TIEEEEEEEED_), though he forgets the words sometimes and just makes incomprehensible noises. The curls atop his head seem to have a life of their own, whipping around wildly, (he’s gonna get more brain damage somehow if he keeps banging his head around like that), and he keeps shimmying his hips in the strangest fucking way just to get a laugh out of Eddie.

Suddenly, Richie’s twirling him around, almost knocking into Beverly and Ben who have since reunited after Richie’s previous interruption. Eddie reaches out for Richie’s chest to catch his balance, so they don’t all topple over.

“Woops,” Richie chuckles, and then spins him around again, pulling him in closer so they’re almost chest to chest. “Trust me?”

Eddie blinks up at him, taking in the appearance of his best friend. Richie’s a little sweaty now, and his hair is makes him look like he’s been electrocuted. He can make out a hint of flush under the wash of the pink and purple glow, and his eyes are alight with mischievous excitement. For all intents and purposes, Eddie should say no, but something about this moment makes him feel good, feel stupid in the best way possible. Besides, it’d be a lie.

“Sure.”

Richie’s face splits into a wide grin, and one of his hands travels to the small of Eddie’s back.

“Oh shit, Rich, don’t you fucking dare—” Eddie squeaks, cut off by Richie dipping him, so far that Eddie’s head almost hits the floor. He clutches onto Richie’s shoulder with this free hand, but Richie’s just laughing. The sound, his energy, is infectious, though, and Eddie starts laughing with him, because it feels so fucking absurd.

Richie brings him back upright, the smile not leaving his face. “Y’know, if we work on that, we could totally enter a dance competition.”

Eddie rolls his eyes fondly, hiding his amused smile into Richie’s shoulder. “You’re so lucky you didn’t drop me on my ass.”

“Yeah,” Richie nods. They’ve stopped moving, but Richie’s palm is still splayed on Eddie’s back, and he brushes his thumb against Eddie’s hand where their hands are still connected. “Are you glad I convinced you to come now?”

Eddie looks around at his friends, who are still dancing like idiots. Truthfully, he couldn’t care less about homecoming itself, the dance or the game. All the expectations were bullshit—it’s underwhelming and nothing special. What matters is that he’s with his losers. Twirling and laughing and bumping into each other with the brightest smiles plastered on their faces. It doesn’t matter where they are, or what he does, because with them by his side, everything’s okay. Nobody else knows him like they do, knows how to piss him off or how to comfort him, how to make him pulse with life in a town that’s so suffocating.

“I’m glad I’m here with you,” Eddie says, looking back into Richie’s eyes. “All of you.”

An indiscernible expression flits over Richie’s face for just a second, but then he gives Eddie an easy smile. There’s something about it that feels so familiar, that makes him feel just as safe here, in this minefield of uncomfortableness, as it does when their bodies are flushed against one another in his bed.

Okay, that sounds weird. That sounds really, really--

_Beep beep!_

The watch on his wrist of the hand that’s still holding Richie’s goes off. Richie sighs, and gives Eddie’s hand a little squeeze before pulling away so that he can check the time.

10:20 P.M.

“Oh, _shit_.”

\---

By some miracle, Eddie made it right on time on homecoming night. (By miracle, he means he was screeching at Richie to drive faster like a fucking banshee the whole time, and Richie narrowly avoided taking down four mailboxes). Despite him not missing his curfew, his mother flipped, essentially putting him on lockdown for the following week. It sucked, having to bike home alone right after school, because his mom didn’t want Richie or anyone else giving him a ride, forced to do homework and eat microwavable dinners with his mom when everyone else got to hang out.

Richie visited him one night, albeit briefly, because they couldn’t get away with their usual routine of Richie sneaking back out and bringing his car or his bike up to the house, as if he’d only just arrived to pick Eddie up. They’d just played cards on his bed, _(_“_Do you wanna play strip poker Eds?” “Shut the fuck up Trashmouth. And don’t call me that”)_, and chatted about nothing in particular, but it had been nice.

At the start of his punishment, Eddie had been pissed, because it was absolutely unfair. He still was, of course, but he had to stop giving his mom the cold shoulder and start being her ‘perfect, delicate boy’, because Halloween was this weekend. There’s no way he was going to miss the losers club’s Halloween Horror Night tradition.

It had started when the club was just Bill, Richie, himself, and Stan, back in fifth grade, when they were out trick-or-treating, and the Bower’s gang decided to be a total fucking cliché and steal all their candy. They’d been out for hours, trying to amass enough candy to beat their record from last year, and lost it all in a minute. They were pissed and felt cheated out of their Halloween experience—especially since they were going to reach that territory of ‘being too old’ to go out and get candy soon. One of their last hurrahs, thwarted.

In an attempt to save their night, Bill invited the other boys to his house, where his parents threw their annual Halloween Bash. They stole any sweets they could and ran up to Bill’s room to gorge themselves and watch horror movies. Eddie’s not really fond of scary films, nor is Stan, but it’s part of the experience, of downing pixy stix and grabbing the arm of whoever was closest to you, passing out with the movie still playing due to exhaustion and a sugar crash. Ever since that year, they spent Halloween night in Bill’s attic, bringing candy and dressing up and sleeping over, adding Ben, Beverly, and Mike to their tradition as they came into their friend group.

This year, in its own way, is another last hurrah for their Halloween nights. Ben thinks they could all Skype or something next year when they’re off at college or wherever, but it won’t really be the same. They won’t all be in the same room, with the moonlight filtering in through the big windows, and bundled up in blankets on the floor. But he’s still trying not to get too caught up in the lasts of it all, even if it’s hard, soaking up the moments instead.

Richie offered to help him sneak out if he needed to, but Eddie got his mother to relent. (Thank god, because last time Richie tried to assist Eddie sneak somewhere, it was an absolute disaster).

Her agreeance was a last-minute thing, so Eddie had to throw together a half assed costume with whatever he had lying around in his room. He’s sure Richie will tease him, and he’ll laughably pale in comparison to Bev, who always goes all out, but he’s just happy he gets to go. 

He throws some pajamas and candy in his backpack and sets off on his bike to meet Stan at the elm tree that stands halfway between their houses.

Per usual, Stan is already waiting there, leaning against the old, sturdy trunk with his bike on its kickstand. Eddie slows to a stop, trying to figure out what the hell Stan’s supposed to be. He’s wearing a white bath robe and his golden curls are in pathetic buns at the sides of his head, the strands almost falling out of their elastics.

“What the fuck are you supposed to be?”

“Hello to you too, Eddie,” Stan rolls his eyes. “I’m… well, I’m _supposed_ to be Leia.”

Eddie looks him up and down, unimpressed. “Really? Because I’m getting more ‘hungover bride at the hotel spa the day after her bachelorette party’ than ‘badass space princess’.”

Stan sighs, his eyes narrowing. “I know, I know, it’s bad. But it’s supposed to be this whole thing, Bill wanted to be Han Solo, and so Mike’s gonna be Lando…”

Weird, since _Stan_ was the one who outlawed group costumes on Halloween in the first place, after Beverly kept outdoing everyone, and Richie would just show up in an entirely different costume. That was when they were younger though, and he supposes that since Bill hosts the evening, he gets to decide.

"And that’s the best you could come up with? That’s not even the outfit she’s wearing in that movie,” Eddie says.

“You’re one to talk,” Stan shoots back. “You look like a beatnik who’s dabbling in the furry community.”

Eddie flushes, looking down at his outfit embarrassedly. He’s right-- that it’s shitty, not the furry thing. Eddie’s just wearing black jeans and a black turtleneck, with a cat ears on his head, finding them stuffed in the back of his closet from the school play they did in elementary school. The all-important role of ‘Cat #2’.

Stan tightens his bathrobe, still examining his ‘costume.’ “You didn’t even draw on whiskers.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie pouts, “My mom would’ve killed me if I put toxic marker on my face. And I only found out I could go like, an hour ago, asshole.”

“Yeah, about that, how’d you even get your mom to let you go?” Stan asks.

“Oh, well, I had to watch a shit ton of her soaps with her. Which, by the way, super crazy. I mean, this guy just, like, _forgot _he was in love with someone for over a decade, and but they had already married someone, who was like, this super evil person, and then there was _also _this stupid love triangle plot and a random fucking supernatural element to it, which, like, _what were the writers thinking, _it totally messed with the tone, and don’t get me started on—”

“Eddie.” Stan gives him a pointed look.

Eddie sucks in a deep breath, regaining the oxygen he lost after ranting. He clears his throat. “Right. Well, you know how she likes you and Bill, for the most part, but hates Richie?”

“Sure,” Stan nods, “Don’t we all?”

Eddie snorts. “Anyways, I also told her Richie won’t be there since his dad’s a dentist and hates Halloween.”

Stan’s face twists up in confusion. “That’s not even true. And even if it was, Richie doesn’t give a shit. Last week he had sour gummy bears and skittles rolled up in fruit by the foot for lunch.”

“Yeah…” Eddie shudders just thinking about the cavities, and the neon drool that had escaped from his mouth.

In the moment of silence where the two were both undoubtedly having traumatic flashbacks to Richie’s rainbow tongue and sugar high, a little kid dressed up as a cowboy runs past them. “Nice costumes, losers!”

“Wow,” Stan’s smile is tight, “Gotta love that good ol’ Derry hospitality.”

Gotta love that good ol’ Stanley Uris sarcasm.

Eddie huffs, shaking his head. “Does everything about this town have to be a fucking cliché?”

“C’mon, we should get going.”

Eddie nods, and they get on their bikes, slightly wobbly at the start because even after all these years, they’re still the worst at riding their bikes. Bill and Richie were always _literally_ biking circles around them, which is kinda ironic, because they’re the ones who actually have cars to drive around now, and Eddie and Stan are still stuck with their old bicycles.

“So,” Eddie says, finally getting steady as they turn left onto a side street, “What’d I miss this week?”

He knows they saw each other at school, but he couldn’t use his phone all week, and the losers spent most of their free time together. Admittedly, it was probably childish, but Eddie was a little jealous that they got to hang out without him, especially as their time together is running on a ticking clock. He wants to know every detail, so he’s not left behind. Richie barely told him anything when he visited in the middle of the week, brushing aside Eddie’s questions with increasingly ridiculous answers. (“_Bill joined the circus”, “We did lines off each other’s asses”, “I met God and he was a cosmic turtle”, “Betty Ripsom and I ran into each other at the movies and she confessed that she thinks I’m sexy and that she’s been in love with me since middle school”)._

Like he said, _ridiculous_.

Stan shrugs. “Not much, honestly. The usual-- Ben swooning over Beverly, Bill’s started like, two short stories and already abandoned them. Me having a breakdown and wanting to die because of AP Calc… Oh! Mike thinks the stray cat in his barn might be pregnant.”

“_Aww_.”

“Maybe he can show you the pictures, show you what an actual cat looks like.”

Eddie flips him off, or tries to, but he starts to lose his balance and has to grip onto the handlebars again. Stan laughs triumphantly.

“Oh, _get this_. Gretta came into get coffee during my shift—her coffee order is abysmal by the way, her teeth should be rotten at this point, but I digress. She was bragging about how she rigged the homecoming votes.”

“I fucking _knew_ it!”

Stan nods, and they bike in silence for a moment, avoiding the kids in costume sprinting across the street, screaming and trying to scare one another. Eddie’s pretty satisfied with Stan’s recounting of the week, but he can’t help but notice that a certain member of their group that wasn’t included in the recap.

“What… what was Richie up to this week?” Eddie asks, timidly.

Stan looks over at him, like he expected Eddie to ask, but wishes he didn’t. “Well, he was annoying—so not unusual at all. But he was just being more annoying than usual,” A sly smile spreads over his face. “He was being annoying about you being gone.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, voice cracking, desperate to know more.

Stan nods, amused. “Yeah, he kept whining about how he wished you were there, how it’d be a better time.”

Eddie’s heart feels like it’s ballooning up in his chest, and prays for it to deflate, but it doesn’t. Richie kept _thinking_ about him.

“Oh.”

“Otherwise, it was nothing different than usual,” Stan pauses, and his voice is gentle when he says, “You didn’t miss out on much, Eddie. Seriously, as frustrating as Richie can be, he was right. It’s not the same without you.”

Comforted, at least somewhat, Eddie takes a deep breath and keeps pedaling. But something about what Stan said unearthed the worries Eddie’s been trying keep buried all month.

“Do you… ever think about that? I mean, like, after high school? What it’ll be like when we’re not all together?”

Stan’s eyes go all sad, and he swallows thickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I wonder if we’re still going to be friends. If we’ll lose what we have now.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Eddie feels like he gonna cry. He’s been thinking it this whole time, but saying it out loud, knowing that one of them is thinking the same thing… It feels all too real.

The pair share a look, a sense of understanding between them. He supposes Stan and himself have always been pretty similar, from their aversion to germs and social events to their fears. That they feel weak, but there’s no way in hell they’d tell anyone. Maybe it’s easier right now, since they know the other gets it.

“It’s scary, and I know sometimes all I can think about when I’m with them is the fact that I might lose them but… The losers help.” Stan thinks for a moment, his features becoming softer. “Bill and Mike help. They bring me back to the present. That I should just appreciate what I have right now.”

“That’s what Richie told me to do. Said that I should ‘live in the moment’ like he does.”

Stan barks out a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, _no_. Richie may _think_ he’s ‘living in the moment’, but he’s really just making reckless impulse decisions to try and distract himself from his problems.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. He knew Richie was being sort of weird, at least back on that day where they were in his garage, but he didn’t think it was anything that serious. Is he just a shit friend who’s unobservant? Or does Richie not trust him enough to talk to him about that sort of stuff? Didn’t trust him the way Eddie _thought_ he did.

“What do you mean?” He prods, hating how unsteady his voice is.

Stan looks like he just realized he said something he shouldn’t have. “Nothing.”

“Don’t pull that shit with me Stan,” Eddie snaps. “Not about this.”

Stan sighs defeatedly. “You have to talk to him about it, but… Well, I think Richie’s more concerned and confused about his future than he lets on.”

“Is that what you two are fighting about?” Eddie questions.

“What? Why do you think we’re fighting?”

“Last Friday, at the homecoming game,” Eddie reminds him, “You two were being weird.”

“Oh,” Stan squeezes his handlebars, looking at the road for a moment. “I mean, you know how Richie pushes all the wrong buttons. He said something, and I got pissed off and did the same to him. We’re good now.”

It’s not unusual for Stan and Richie to get into spats and make up fairly fast, and even though the former often understates how bad a situation really is, Eddie believes him. But it still bothers him. What had pissed Richie off so bad during the game? And what the hell did Stan mean about Richie running from his problems?

Maybe Richie’s advice was bullshit. Maybe he _should_ be worrying about the future.

They slow down as they reach the Denbrough residence, parked cars lining the street for the annual Halloween Bash Bill’s parents throw every year. They park their bikes by the side of the house, Eddie stumbling as he dismounts and Stan taking his time and making sure his is balanced on its kickstand.

The lawn isn’t as decorated as it used to be, no tombstones in the lawn—understandable, for pretty obvious reasons. The pair walk up the front steps, passing the spot where two Jack-o-Lanterns used to flicker until the candles snuffed themselves out. Georgie was always so excited to show them his whenever they arrived, bouncing up and down and talking about how him and Bill worked on it together, though Bill really did all the work.

October marks almost five years since his death.

Eddie’s eyes feel wet, something awful bubbling up in his throat. Stan’s got that faraway look in his eyes, wringing his hands together. Eddie sniffles and tries to pull himself together before opening the front door and crossing the threshold, Stan following behind.

When they were younger, Eddie remembers the Denbrough parties being larger than life, like he was walking through a movie scene. Decorations made their home feel festive and alive; haunting music played on the speakers and there were games and punch in a cauldron with dry ice billowing out of it. They’d used to sneak sweets as the adults cooed over them, until they were able to escape upstairs.

Now, the party is still bustling, but that magic quality is gone. In some ways, the celebration is rowdier, but that’s because the alcohol is freely flowing, and none of them even notice that there’s kids around. Mr. and Mrs. Denbrough probably forgot Bill’s upstairs, that he’s having his friends over at all. Eddie and Stan pass the couple, and there’s a certain kind of emptiness behind Mr. and Mrs. Denbrough’s eyes.

Eddie knows that they went through a lot when Georgie died, but he wants to yell at them until he’s blue in the face for how they’ve neglected Bill, so caught up in losing one son that, in a way, they lost another.

They squeeze through the partygoers and clamber up the stairs into Bill’s room, up in the attic.

Upon opening the door, they see that Mike’s already there, sprawled out on the bed with Bill, his arm thrown over Bill’s waist as he looks over his shoulder at something on Bill’s phone. Eddie’s glad Bill’s laughing, that someone was here to keep him company, even if it’s sort of weird that Mike is there first despite living on the other side of town.

“Happy Halloween y’all!” Mike says once they actually notice their presence.

Stan toes off his shoes and puts them neatly in the corner before he sits on the other side of Bill on the bed. “Hey.”

Bill looks Stan up and down, his eyes alight with amusement. “Looking good,” his voice teasing.

Looking at Stan beside Bill and Mike, who were actually pulling off pretty accurate renditions of Han Solo and Lando Calrissian, the shitty quality of his costume was even more apparent.

“I hate you,” Stan replies, but there’s no bite—in fact, he breaks after a beat, a wide smile spreading across his face.

“I _know_.”

Mike laughs brightly, burying his face into the crook of Bill’s neck. Stan reaches out to fix Bill’s auburn hair, all awry from laying down, and strokes the side of his face with his thumb.

Weird.

“So, are you guys just going to hog the bed, or what?” Eddie crosses his arms at the foot of the mattress. They all share a look.

“Here, I’ll help you set up all the blankets and stuff on the floor,” Mike offers after a moment, untangling from Bill.

They assemble a cozy arrangement of pillows and blankets at the foot of the bed, facing the wall where Bill and Stan are getting the projector running so they can watch the horror movies.

Ben arrives as they’re finishing up, dressed in white jeans and a white hoodie. Eddie’s not sure what he’s supposed to be, maybe a Q-Tip, or one of the members of that boyband he loves so much. He’s not going to ask though, too embarrassed after Stan tore his costume apart, even though Ben would never do the same.

The four begin compiling their loot of candy and which films they want to watch, chatting away as they wait for Richie and Beverly. They’re always late, especially since Richie’s in charge of getting them here.

About twenty minutes later, Beverly enters the room, looking incredible, like she does every year. Incredible, in that she loves to go all out on her costume, sewing the clothes herself and doing intricate makeup. Eddie always feels inadequate beside her, even in the years he does try. This year she’s got on a long black wig, blood dripping from her mouth and onto the fancy white dress hanging from her shoulders. She looks pretty, in the way she usually is to him—he can appreciate the effort, but it has nowhere near the effect it does on the boys, or at least how it used to for Bill, and maybe does for Richie (_please, don’t_), and…

Well, Ben looks equal parts intimidated and in love.

“Happy Halloween spooky bitches!” Bev greets them excitedly, Mike laughing at her enthusiasm. “Sorry we’re late.”

“Wow, Beverly,” Ben says, slowly blinking up at her. “You look great.”

Bev grins, setting down her things. “Thanks Ben.”

“Who are you supposed to be?” Bill asks from the bed, tearing open a packet of M&M’s Ben brought and pouring some in Mike’s hand before taking some of his own.

“Jennifer Check.” She waits for some form of recognition from the five boys, but none comes. “Oh, c’mon! _Jennifer’s Body?_ Megan Fox? Like, the best movie ever? She becomes a succubus and eats boys alive. It’s _amazing_.”

Ben’s eyes widen and he gulps, though he regains his composure and nods. “Sounds cool. We should watch it tonight, if you want.”

“_Yes_, I need to educate you guys. Queue it up Bill.”

Beverly sits between Eddie and Ben on the floor and starts to riffle through the pile of candy, picking out a lollipop. Eddie notices a suspicious lack of a certain tall nuisance in the room. “Hey, where’s Richie—”

“_BOO!_” Richie yells, bursting through the door and almost knocking over the lamp on Bill’s dresser. “What’s up fuckers?!”

“Oh, great.” Stan sighs, unaffected.

After Eddie’s heart has calmed down from Richie’s attempt to scare the losers, he takes in Richie’s costume. It’s… a lot.

He’s wearing all black, chunky combat boots on his feet and a muscle tank, the cuts so low that Eddie can basically see the entire side of his torso and his stomach. Richie isn’t super fit by any means, but it still makes Eddie’s eye widen, the slight muscle on his arm and the large expanse of pale skin. He’s not wearing his big glasses for once, probably because he’s wearing eyeliner. _Fucking eyeliner_. Bev must’ve done it, because it looks messy but on purpose, surrounding his brown eyes and making them pop.

Richie looks… Good.

Jesus, Eddie is so fucking pathetic. He has no idea why he can’t look away, especially because Richie is, like, scrawny and pathetic and stupid and already being an asshole. Richie seems to notice, a sly smile spreading across his face.

Eddie clears his throat, forcing himself to look away and shove some popcorn in his mouth.

“What the hell is Löded Diper?” Mike asks, reading off of Richie’s tank top.

Richie scoffs, “Uh, only the best band ever?”

“We don’t listen to your stupid underground bands, dipshit,” Eddie says, and Bev and Richie start laughing crazily.

“Damn Eds, I thought you were staring me like that because you knew who I was, and you were _floored_ by my amazing costume skills,” the fucker _winks_ with his fucking eyeliner, and Eddie’s stomach swoops without his permission. “I’m Rodrick Heffley, _duh_!”

Eddie groans, turning furiously red and burying his head in his hands as Richie continues to laugh. Thinking that Richie was attractive was mortifying enough, but thinking that while he’s dressed as something so juvenile? Eddie wishes Beverly was actually a suck-you-whatever so he could be eaten alive and _die_.

“You are an intolerable thorn lodged in underside of my foot,” Stan says flatly, not looking up from his phone.

“I have no idea what the _fuck_ that means, but _you three_ are, like, my dream foursome right now,” Richie leans against the doorframe.

Bill chuckles, “Th-the characters we’re d-dressed up as, or us?”

“_Por que no los dos?” _Richie smirks and turns his gaze on Eddie. He pulls a pair of drumsticks from his back pocket, twirling them between his slender fingers and pointing one at him. “Don’t worry Eds, I can put on a private performance for you later.”

Eddie throws a pillow in Richie’s direction, though it lands at his feet. “Shut the fuck up, that’s not even funny, dumbfuck.”

“Okay, okay, no need to be so _catty_ about it,” Richie teases, finally stepping into the room. “I see that I’m the only one who put effort into my costume.”

“_Ahem_.”

“Fine, Beverly. If it makes you feel better, you get an honorary star for trying,” Beverly rolls her eyes at Richie. “But I mean, like, seriously. What is Ben even dressed up as? A tampon?”

Ben huffs, “No, actually, it was supposed to be this clever thing, but no one asked…”

“What are you dressed as Ben?” Beverly asks, genuinely interested.

Ben starts to unzip his white jacket, and Richie throws his hands over his eyes and yelps, “Stop! Wait until we’re out of the room buddy!”

“Richie, shut up,” Beverly snaps, “Sorry, he’s… well… Just continue, okay?”

Nodding slowly, Ben continues and then reveals his shirt, white with a blob of yellow construction paper taped onto it. He waves his hand around it to show it off, waiting for a reaction. He’s met with silence.

"I don’t get it,” Eddie says.

“It’s—that’s the egg yolk, and the unzipping of the jacket is like, the shell breaking, and—”

“Oh! I get it!” Richie snaps and points finger guns at Ben. “You’re… Eggboy.”

Ben’s face twists up. “No, I’m just an egg—”

“I don’t think that’s very accurate, Ben,” Mike interrupts. “I mean, eggs don’t really break that way, and there’s not any of the egg white and stuff. Trust me, I’ve dealt with lots of eggs in my life.”

“Yeah, so you’re not _really_ an egg, you’re just… Eggboy,” Richie giggles.

“If he says he’s an egg, he’s an egg,” Eddie defends Ben.

“Can we s-stop s-sssaying ‘egg’ so much? The w-w-word has lost all meaning now.”

“You’re just on his side because your costume is bad too. Cute, but bad.” Eddie flips off Richie, and the other boy strides forward and drops carelessly onto the ground, wedging between him and Bev. He pulls Eddie into a side hug, petting his arm and smacking a kiss on the top of his head, “Aw, c’mere kitty, don’t be mad—”

Eddie shoves away from him. “Why are you being so fucking weird? Were you guys super late because you were holding a séance? Did—_did your dumbass get possessed_? I swear to god Rich, if you got possessed, I’m gonna be so angry.”

“I almost fucking forgot!” Richie gasps sharply and fumbles for his bag. “This year, Bev and I made some _reaaaaaaaaal_ spooky treats.”

He pulls out a tupperware full of brownie squares from his bag with a flourish.

“Oh, I get it now,” Mike says.

Eddie’s brows furrow, “I don’t. What the fuck is so scary about brownies?”

“I mean, fear is subjective, but I mean this shit, like, in the 80’s? _Horrifying_.”

Bill snorts. Eddie just shakes his head in frustration, still not understanding.

“Like, this is your brain after you eat it,” Richie smacks the paper yolk on Ben’s stomach with his hand, so hard it makes a resounding slap.

“_Richie!_” Ben hisses through clenched teeth. Beverly puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“My bad, Eggboy.”

Eddie throws his hands up in exasperation. “Can someone please just fucking explain what’s going on?”

“Weed,” Mike answers, “There’s weed in the brownies. They made edibles.”

Richie grins lazily, chuckling. “Ha. _Ed_ibles. Get it? Cause your name is—”

“Yeah, I fucking get it, dipshit. You are so fucking dumb. What if your parents caught you, or the police did, or you made it wrong and you die?! And I mean, does it even _taste _good?”

“I mean, it’s double chocolate chip. I’m not a heathen.”

Stan laughs dryly, “Sure about that?”

Richie ignores him and nudges Eddie. “Why, you wanna try and find out?”

“_Richie_,” Stan warns.

Beverly opens the plastic container. “No one has to try anything they don’t want to.”

Bill crawls to the foot of the bed. “You don’t seem th-that high, Bev.”

“‘Cause I haven’t taken one yet. Richie was the guinea pig.”

“How strong is it?” Mike asks.

Richie shrugs, “Honestly, I kinda wasted a bunch of the shit while I was making it, so it’s not that bad. I’m sure you’d be fine. _I’m _fucking chilling right now, and I took it a few hours ago.”

Stan and Eddie share a look as the others decide if they’re going to partake or not. _Fuck _no. In the end, Beverly takes a piece for herself and Bill and Mike split one.

“Getting high to watch horror movies… It’s your fucking funeral!” Eddie says as Stan gets up to turn off the lights.

The seven friends settle as the opening starts, divvying out candy and shushing Richie, even though they know he’s going to keep a running track of commentary the whole movie. Eddie wraps himself in a fuzzy blanket, fighting off the cold and ready to hide if need be.

Richie’s stupid jokes sort of undercut the terrifying experience, even more so due to the fact that he’s high. (And maybe Eddie’s responses and constant questions kinda ruin it for everyone else too, though he wouldn’t admit it). Still, Eddie’s spooked and full of chocolate by the time they finish the first movie.

He excuses himself to go to the bathroom as they set up _Jennifer’s Body_, rushing down the dark stairs so fast that he almost falls down them.

When he returns, Richie’s taken his spot, spreading his gangly legs across the floor.

“Fucking move, Richie,” Eddie huffs, prodding him with his feet, which are clothed in skeleton socks.

“Make me.”

Stan rolls his eyes from his spot on the bed, Bill tucked into his side. “Can you two stop arguing and just sit down?”

Eddie glares at him and shoves at Richie again, who is nonplussed by Eddie’s attempts. Agitated, Eddie slots himself between Richie’s legs, sitting up straight enough so that the boy can’t see past him in his slumped state.

"H-hey!” Richie protests.

“What, am I in your way or something?”

Bev groans, “Quiet!”

Suddenly, Richie’s arm is wrapping around the front of Eddie, pulling him nearer so that his back is against Richie’s chest. He keeps his bare arm locked around the front, resting his hand over Eddie’s heart.

“Ha. I guess you could say I’m a pussy magnet.”

“Beep beep, Richie!” The others chorus.

Eddie elbows Richie’s ribs, but stays where he is, leaning his head against Richie’s front shoulder. He dares a look at the other boy, who is stiff under him for just a moment before relaxing. The freckles on his face stand out more than usual now that there aren’t any glasses distracting from them, and Eddie can’t help but notice how sharp Richie’s cheekbones are. Beverly must’ve put something shiny on them, particles catching gloomy lighting of the film. And, again, the _eyeliner._

Richie hums in amusement, and takes the cat ears off of Eddie’s head since they’re digging into his face. He shifts, getting comfortable and returning his hands to Eddie’s body. It feels like his touch is burning holes through Eddie’s chunky turtleneck.

After the movie is finished, the losers take turns changing into pajamas, exhaustion accelerated by the stressful week and, for some of them, the marijuana. Apparently, edibles make people sleepy, because Bill’s been yawning every other minute and Mike practically has to carry him to the bathroom.

Ben and Beverly shift closer to the window, probably to get away from Richie and Eddie’s antics, though they seem to be whispering about something when Eddie returns from changing last.

Once again, Richie has his legs spread out, but this time Eddie steps over them carefully. Richie frowns, though it disappears when Eddie settles right by his side, throwing a blanket around both of their shoulders. He doesn’t want to stop being close to Richie, to feel the warmth and comfort radiating from him, but how they were before… It was too overwhelming.

Bill starts up the next movie, though Eddie already hears his soft snores during the first twenty minutes. No one is really paying attention, Ben and Beverly are still sat at the window and speaking in hushed tones, huddled together. He can’t see Stan and Mike, but Stan always like to turn in early anyways, and Mike’s probably tired from brownies too. 

The movie is shitty, with terrible acting and effects, so they rely pretty heavily on jump scares. Eddie ducks his head behind Richie’s shoulder at a particularly gruesome one, though they start to become so overused that he feels numb to them. That, and Richie is still keeping up his running commentary, though he’s whispering it in Eddie’s ear for only him to hear. And it’s shit that’s _really_ funny, not cheap innuendos but inside jokes and clever quips. In the spaces between their laughter, with Richie’s arm pressed against his, Eddie feels lucky. Feels happy.

But soon, he starts feeling sleepy, his eyes drooping closed as he lets out an impressive yawn.

“C’mere Eds,” Richie shifts Eddie’s head off his shoulder. “Don’t want you waking up all sore n’ shit.”

“Mhm,” Eddie hums dazedly in agreement, barely awake. He moves and puts his head in Richie’s lap, using his thighs as a pillow. Distantly, he hears Richie’s breath hitch from above him. Eddie gets comfortable, curling up in on himself and falling asleep as the credits start to roll.

\---

The next morning, Eddie wakes up to the sensation of gentle fingers running through his curls, calm and grounding. It’s slow and soothing, so much so that he might fall back asleep any moment, but the early morning light is filtering in through the glass windowpanes and pries his brown eyes open.

The room is bleary as his eyes slowly blink awake, but he makes out Ben and Beverly dozing, Beverly asleep against his chest. It’s quiet out, save for the occasional bird chirping, and everything is painted in an orangey-red glow from the sunrise.

Eddie lets out a soft sound as his head is massaged, reveling in tender touch. He shifts and the hand stills, though it still hovers, and Eddie is greeted with the sight of Richie, unguarded and at peace.

And it _is_ a sight. Richie did a shitty job of removing his makeup, so his eyes are still shadowed with the ghost of dark lines, juxtaposing the vulnerable look they’re sending him. His pale skin is swathed in the rosy glow, and for once, everything is nice—perfectly still.

They stare at each other for a moment, taking everything in. A slow smile spreads over Richie’s face, affectionate and sleepy.

“Morning Eds,” his voice is still deep and rough from sleep, and it tugs at something in Eddie’s chest.

“Hey.”

“Sorry about the uh, hair thing,” Richie says, though he doesn’t move his hand from Eddie’s head. He lets out a chuckle, voice tinged with nerves. “I’m probably still a little high or something.”

Except he doesn’t look high—sure his pupils are sort of wide, but the rest of his eyes aren’t red or droopy. Despite his lack of weed related knowledge, Eddie’s pretty sure it wouldn’t last this long, at least for someone with a tolerance like Richie’s.

Instead of point that all out, Eddie just says, “It’s okay. Felt good.”

“Oh… Yeah?”

“Keep going.”

Richie blinks at him. “_Oh._ Yeah, okay. Sure.”

He continues, sending Eddie a small smile before looking away, out the window.

There’s something about it, Richie’s hand on him, the softness of his features, the freckles dotting along his neck and sharp jaw. Eddie feels this ache in his chest, like some part of him that’s too big for his body is trying to burst free.

And suddenly, all he can think about is reaching up and pulling Richie down into his space, meeting him halfway with a brush of his lips in the warm radiant morning. Easy and slow, his own fingers running through the halo of curls atop Richie’s head, Richie pulling him closer. _Richie_.

Then Richie looks back at him, and his stomach twists up, feeling caught and ashamed. He swallows the thought down like a sharp knife, his throat swelling up with the wave of emotions crashing over him.

Eddie buries his face into Richie’s stomach, unable to look at him, to be looked at for another second. There’s no way he likes boys, likes _Richie_. It’s a fluke, a stupid fucking thought that his traitorous brain made just to torture him. Because if he did like Richie, he’d be as sick as his mother told him he was. He’d be wrong and weak, but this time because of his own undoing. Because liking Richie would just make everything more complicated.

So, no thank you hell brain, Eddie Kaspbrak’s just a normal fucking teenager, thank you very much. No hidden feelings for his best friend here.

“Eddie, you okay?” Richie questions, voice low and quiet. It makes his chest ache again.

Eddie groans into Richie’s shirt, fists tightening around the fabric.

“Mhm. Just great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i need to stop using songs so often in fics, only if it's super important!!!  
me: *adds a section where they sing fergalicious*
> 
> also the lime juice thing twas inspired by true a story........... DEFINITELY not me..... totally not.... at all........................
> 
> anyways tysm for reading if you made it this far!!!! next chapter should not be as wildly long so it'll hopefully be out sooner. if you want to chat about this fic or whatever, you can find me on tumblr @stevesharrigton.


	3. november

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all! thank you so much for all the kind words for this fic. i know it doesn't seem like it bc this chapter took a bit to get up but it really motivates me! (you can thank such fun things as midterms and power outages for this taking awhile lmaolerkngrg)
> 
> first i have a few general housekeeping things to share!  
-i shared [a playlist for the fic here](https://mikeshanlon.tumblr.com/post/188228188538/stevesharrigton-playlist-read-the-fic-here) if any of you are interested!  
-i've p much finished my outline, so this fic should be 11 chapters (the last one will be an epilogue)  
-i've updated it in the tags, but although he has a lot of internalized homophobia and repression, Eddie is Gay in this (and he's gay period but erlgknrg). Just thought I would make that clear!!!!! 
> 
> and a couple things for this chapter:  
-tw: eddie has an anxiety attack, as well as internalized homophobia/repression  
-also, quick note, it's explained later in the chapter but bill and bev were briefly in a relationship in sophomore year before mutually deciding they're better as friends. it's not like.... ever going to be a Thing again, it's mostly included because Eddie is dumb and uses them as a reference point for his own Feelings.
> 
> Anyways, happy reading!

Eddie stays sheltered in the soft cotton of Richie’s shirt until it becomes too long, too close, _too much_ for him to handle. Until he doesn’t feel safe with Richie’s hands in his hair, against the warmth of his body. Because he realizes belatedly, that the solace he seeks out from Richie may be stained with something shameful.

He doesn’t look Richie in the eyes when he pulls back, barely able to say he’s going to the bathroom before he scurries away, shaky hands locking the door behind him. With one hand white knuckling the porcelain sink, he uses the other to turn the faucet and splash cold water on his face, but it doesn’t help. Nothing fucking helps. His lungs continue to ache, as if they’ll rupture underneath his ribcage at any moment. Eddie’s fingertips twitch for his inhaler until he remembers it’s bullshit and won’t do anything to quell his anxiety.

He tries to recall what he’s supposed to do when he has a panic attack, something to regulate his breathing, to distract him, but he can’t fucking catch his breath. Gasping for air, he stares at his reflection in the smudged mirror, like maybe that’s supposed to ground him in reality. _He’s okay. He’s still himself._

Except, he wishes he wasn’t. Eddie wishes he saw some monstrous imposter staring back at him, or maybe nothing at all, because then he’d still be dreaming. What he sees is much more unsettling than a nightmare induced from falling asleep during a horror movie marathon. Instead it’s just him, with his bushy brows and faded freckles and fear trapped in his big brown eyes. It’s him, awake and conscious, who thought about kissing Richie.

Richie would probably know what to do, how to calm him down. He knew when Eddie freaked out when they were speeding through the backstreets of Derry. And he knew all the times Eddie’s started shaking and his breaths became short at school, or swimming at the quarry, or at a sleepover just like this one. They don’t even need words; Richie just knows to pull him to the side and ground him with a hand on his arm, or whatever else he needs to come back to Earth.

Sometimes it feels like Richie knows him better than he knows himself.

And _fuck_, does he know Eddie wanted to kiss him just minutes ago?

Before he can spiral much more, there’s a sharp knock on the bathroom door, Ben begging Eddie to hurry up on the other side. Eddie forces himself to square his shoulders and opens the door, apologizing. Ben looks like he’s going to ask if everything’s okay, which Eddie _cannot _handle right now, so he tells him to hurry up and go to the bathroom before ducking away.

For the rest of the morning, he floats around the Denbrough residence like a ghost. It’s as if his mind is separate from his body, like he’s just watching himself help Mike with breakfast, slicing fresh fruit and almost cutting his fingertips as he spirals further into a rabbit hole of self-loathing and confusion.

Stan, who’s brewing coffee for everyone, tells him to stop and sit, that he’ll finish up for Eddie. It takes a few seconds too long to register, and then his legs are carrying the rest of him to one of the dining chairs.

The thoughts start again as his fingers tap rapidly against the smooth wood surface of the table.

_(Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Why’d he even think about that shit? There’s no fucking way that he—there’s no way. There has to be some preexisting case where people got second hand high from edibles, somehow. Or he was delirious from all the horror movies. He doesn’t like-- That’s not him. Wrong. He doesn’t think about guys like that. About Richie, like that. Richie. What if Richie found out? Would he hate him? What if he thought the same--)_

Mike jokes that Eddie looks like he’s trying to burn a hole in the kitchen table with his mind, with how intensely he’s fixated on it.

He blinks and suddenly everyone else is downstairs, crowding around the table. They’re being loud, arguing and shrieking with laughter, but Bill’s parents are too hungover to care. Eddie can barely taste the French toast Mike whipped up from the stale bread in the otherwise empty pantry, which sucks, because Mike always makes the best food. Comforting and delicious and made with love, so unlike the frozen dinners Eddie’s used to.

Richie’s buzzing next to him, leg bouncing and regaling everyone with funny jokes, or at least, they’re probably funny if the distant sounds of laughter are any indication, but none of the words stick in Eddie’s brain.

It feels like he’s submerged in the greenish water of the quarry, just able to make out the muffled sounds and figures of his friends on the rocks, but he can’t break the surface. He can’t swim up because as isolating as it feels, it’s safer down in the water where he can’t breathe, air bubbles escaping his nostrils and his eyes stinging. It’s better to keep himself separate, because he cannot handle being around them, _really _being around them and soaking up their presence, because he doesn’t feel like himself at all right now. Like the person Stan (and _Richie_), said they weren’t the same without.

(Or _maybe_, he feels too much like himself).

Eddie sighs, pushing around the bite size pieces of bread with his fork and coating them with sickeningly sweet syrup, slowly forcing himself to chew even though he has no appetite.

He leaves as soon as possible after breakfast, saying his mother wants him to be home early, which she probably does, though that’s not _why_ he’s leaving. He almost falls off his bike twice as he rides home in the foggy morning chill, his mother yelling at him when he gets home, telling him that he can’t leave the house for the rest of the weekend.

For once, in its own weird way, it doesn’t really feel like an underserving punishment.

\---

After a weekend of moping under his covers and pretty much ignoring everyone, especially Richie, Eddie sort of just… keeps it up.

He tries, he really does, to carry on like everything is normal. It is, sometimes, because he’ll totally forget what happened, and then Richie ruffles Eddie’s hair when he walks into their government class, and it comes back. Eddie’s so distracted that he lets Richie, with his awful chicken scratch, do most of the work on their poster. He doesn’t complain about it coming out crooked and messy and devoid of colorful markers. That’s, like, an entirely new low.

So, he sits in-between Bill and Mike at lunch, stealing Stan’s spot. He avoids going to his locker, because Richie’s is right by his, and tells Richie not to pick him up in the morning or take him home. Last night, Richie had texted him saying that he was by their favorite Chinese place, and that he was thinking about grabbing their usual and coming over to watch a movie. It was late enough that Richie spending the night was implied, and the familiarity of it all made Eddie overwhelmed, so he just used the same homework excuse he’d been giving the past couple times Richie, or the other losers, invited him to hang out.

Technically it’s not a lie, because all the exams and start of college applications _are _kicking his ass, and the AP statistics homework he’s currently doing is his own personal hell. Eddie’s at that point in the semester where he’s seriously considering giving up on life and becoming a hermit in the woods. Normal senior problems.

But he’s also not getting a lot done either, not just because he’s not the best at math. (Really, why the _fuck_ did he take an AP math course?) He can’t stop thinking about kissing Richie. Well, the fact that he _thought_ about kissing Richie, though he does think about that too. Thinks about it too much for how hard he’s trying to push it out of his mind. He’ll catch himself thinking about Richie leaning down to kiss him, that night after the party where he sprawled over him. Or his face being the one Richie cradled in his hands, pressing his lips to Eddie’s head and calling him beautiful instead of Beverly. Or if he had actually kissed Richie that morning.

Really, Eddie doesn’t know why it keeps crossing his mind when he’s left alone with his thoughts too long. Because at this point, he’s convinced himself that thinking about kissing Richie was a total fucking fluke. He was half asleep that morning, and he just missed the losers after not seeing them much for a week. It had to be some weird psychological thing, that his groggy mind conjured up the strangest way of wanting to be close to his friends.

… Yeah. That’s definitely it.

The lead in his mechanical pencil snaps from pressing down on it too hard, and Eddie lets out a deep sigh.

It’s not like Eddie’s, like, homophobic. Sure, he’s been inundated with his mother’s rants about gay people being sick and immoral since he was little, and Derry is definitely not winning any points for inclusivity. But it’s also the 21st century, and by now, at 17, Eddie’s a lot more educated about that kind of shit. Like when Beverly came out as bisexual to them last year, Eddie was maybe a bit confused, but he was accepting and loved her all the same. Now, even if someone like Bill, (who’s pretty straight), told Eddie he wasn’t, he’d immediately accept him. Be happy for him. There’d be nothing sick and immoral about them, or who they loved. Love being _wrong_ just seemed contradictory.

But… if he thinks about _himself_ being gay? It feels wrong. Like it’s fine if anyone else _but_ him is. If it’s him, he’s corrupted and disgusting and fucked in the head. _Wrong_. And maybe, even though it terrifies him, it’s not wrong because he isn’t at all. Maybe because he _is_.

As much as he’s tried to ignore it, Eddie knows he doesn’t look at girls the same way Ben or Richie or Bill does. He doesn’t think about girls like that, period. The first time they went swimming with Beverly when they were young, he averted his eyes, uncomfortable and scared. That hasn’t really changed, if the homecoming dance was any indicator. He’s never wanted to take a girl to the movies or hold their hand, even though he knows, deep down, he’s a romantic and wouldn’t mind going on spontaneous dates and getting love notes or whatever. Just… not with a girl.

And Eddie’s never wanted to kiss a girl.

There seems to be a fair amount of statistically significant data piling up that points to Eddie not liking girls, at the very least. If only figuring all this shit out was as clear cut as one of his math problems. (_Because we fail to reject the null hypothesis, we conclude that there is not sufficient evidence to support the claim that Eddie Kaspbrak likes girls)_. But does that automatically mean he likes guys? He doesn’t fucking know, and he can’t even really get any of the actual math problems right, so. He’s clueless.

Eddie huffs, erasing yet another hypothesis test. There’s no way he got it right given how much he’s struggling, and that half of his mental real estate is taken up by a stupid fucking sexuality crisis. (Except, he’s definitely not freaking out, it’s just his infuriating brain self-afflicting yet another problem, so is it really a crisis?). As if he didn’t have enough on his plate. The page rips with all the force Eddie’s using, and he lets out a muffled scream.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He allows himself a moment to collect himself, sipping angrily on his apple juice and tucking his knees under his huge red knit sweater. After he feels his heart rate slow down, Eddie tries again, though soon enough he’s hitting the buttons on his graphing calculator so aggressively the buttons should be breaking.

It’s just… _Richie_?! That’s who his brain decides to have this freak out over. Like, okay, okay, maybe Eddie doesn’t like girls. But he cannot accept that the guy he thought about kissing was Richie of all people. Stinky, irresponsible, uncouth, Richie Tozier.

If he were questioning himself over whether or not he’s gay, it should be over someone like Bill. Bill Denbrough is caring, loyal, and passionate. He’s a little dumb and reckless sometimes, sure, but he’s a lot more mature than Richie is. But Eddie’s never thought of Bill like—okay, _actually_… Maybe he has. That’s thing about this annoying fucking shit his brain is doing, because now he’s recontextualizing every single action and thought he’s had his whole life.

Because _shit_, in middle school (and probably high school, if he’s honest, up until Bill and Beverly’s brief relationship), he was sort of… Obsessed with Bill. Not in a weird stalker way, but if he thinks back on it now, Eddie spent quite a bit of time thinking about his blue eyes and pouty lips, and how _great_ Bill is. That he loved when Bill stuck up for him or gave him little sketches he drew of Eddie and himself during class. He would do anything for Bill. But _all _of the losers felt like that about Bill. He’s just… something magical. That can’t really mean anything, then. Liking Bill Denbrough a weird amount is just a side effect of knowing Bill Denbrough.

A better example would be Stan. For all intents and purposes, if he wanted a relationship, he should want someone like Stan. They’re so similar. Stan is clean, and mindful, and witty. He knows when to give people space, but he’s also a good listener. His voice is nice and soothing. Plus, Stan’s attractive, with healthy, deep golden curls and pretty eyes. He’s put together and doesn’t wear ugly, mismatching clothes. And he’s known Stan about as long as he’s known Bill and Richie. But he’s never randomly thought about kissing Stan or been obsessed with him.

That’s why Eddie thinks this is just his brain being weird. Because why the _fuck_ would Eddie want to kiss or be with Richie? He’s, as Beverly says, a fucking disaster. He’s loud and obnoxious and certainly not put together. He dresses with clashing patterns and colors, his patterned socks never match, and his sneakers are beaten to all hell. Even when he’s not wearing his stupid fucking Hawaiian shirts, his sweaters are tattered and moth ridden, perpetually destined to look like a deadbeat stoner.

Though there are times where Eddie, unwillingly, thinks Richie looks good. Eddie likes his dark curly hair, his wide smile, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. He likes how tall Richie is, how he fits just under his chin when they hug. He likes his freckles and his slender fingers and how he looks when he’s making everyone howl with laughter, the satisfied smile that plays on his lips and the light in his eyes.

But, whatever, because Richie is annoying in other ways. He can be completely oblivious and inconsiderate, saying and doing shit with no regard for how other’s feel about it. And they fight _all _the time, about dumb and inappropriate shit.

Sure, maybe Eddie enjoys when they fight fervently about nothing in particular, his whole body alive and buzzing and liking the feeling even though he gets so worked up. Because Richie takes the screeching and clever remarks and abundance of swears as good as he gives it. And yeah, they have those gentler moments too, where Eddie feels known and secure. Really, Richie understands Eddie like no one else. They make a good pair, in their own strange way.

Before Eddie can find a way to twist that back to him definitely _not_ liking Richie, the sound of something tapping on his window pulls him from his thoughts. Eddie turns in his chair to see, well, not something, but someone. They very someone who’s always at his window. The person he’s been avoiding.

Richie doesn’t wait for Eddie to invite him in, already pushing the window the rest of the way open so he can crawl through.

“It’s seems I’ve misplaced my best friend,” Richie says, clambering inside and almost knocking everything off the nightstand. Eddie rolls his eyes at his lack of grace. “I think he’s been taken hostage by homework. I’ll pay ransom in the form of my dazzling looks and exquisite company.”

“I think it’s called being responsible and actually doing my work,” Eddie shakes his head, swiveling back to his equations. “And you’re really not that dazzling.”

“I do my work, thank you very much.”

Eddie sends him a look over doubt from over his shoulder.

“Okay, okay, _sometimes _I do my work,” Richie corrects himself, “But, seriously though, you need to take a fucking break.”

“I’m fine,” Eddie huffs. He can’t deal with being around Richie right now, not with everything.

“See Eds, I really don’t think so. I think your brain’s clearly withering away,” Richie spins Eddie’s chair again, bracing his hands on the arms. Eddie is effectively trapped in Richie’s space, the other boy leaning towards him. “Me? Not dazzling?”

Eddie looks up at Richie, and the teasing grin spread across his face. The sun is starting to set behind him, casting his silhouette in a golden glow. It’s warm and inviting and reminds him too much of the morning after Halloween. Suddenly Eddie so much more aware of their close proximity, how if he titled his head just so and inched forward, then…

Then nothing. He doesn’t like Richie that way.

“Leave me alone, Rich, I can’t fail this class.”

Richie shrugs, unperturbed. “Okay, I’ll do the work for you. Stats isn’t that hard.”

“Firstly, just because you’re some sort of fucking… _math wizard_ doesn’t mean it’s easy for people like me, asshole,” Eddie lightly pushes Richie’s frame away from him, “Secondly, that’s cheating. I don’t cheat. I like my moral code just the way it is.”

Of course, the status of Eddie’s morality is kinda up in the air right now, but Richie doesn’t need to know that.

“_Boooriiiiiing_! C’mon, just relax for a bit. I’ve barely seen my Eds the past couple weeks and it fucking sucks.”

Eddie flushes. “Stop calling me that.”

“We can watch a movie, or read some comics, or do those face masks you like. Do you wanna play cards? Or maybe do prank calls? We could call Keene’s and fuck with that geriatric creep,” Richie seems to be waiting for Eddie to accept one of his suggestions, but Eddie doesn’t do anything except give him and unamused look. Richie, unfortunately, continues. “Perhaps a sexy pillow fight? Or scrolling through our timelines and making fun of people. Oh! We could do a dance party. Maybe I’ll just show you the sex tape me and your mom made the other night…”

Even though he’s being insistently annoying, there’s a sort of subtle desperation behind Richie’s voice that makes Eddie feel terrible. Because, yeah, he’d been trying to keep Richie at arm’s length until he gets over this stupid sexuality crisis, but he hadn’t really _meant_ to push him away. He doesn’t want Richie to feel like he doesn’t want him around.

“…I could go back to my place and get my telescope. Then we could go on the roof and try to attract aliens so that we get abducted by a UFO. I, for one, am _so_ down to clap some hot, dummy thick extraterrestrial cheeks, especially with my homie—"

Eddie groans, “Ugh, keep talking and you’re getting the vegetable placenta mask.”

Richie stops speaking, and then a relieved smile breaks across his face. “Um, there’s one that’s vegetable placenta?! I’m offended that you think I _wouldn’t_ want that one.”

Eddie bites his lip to keep from laughing and moves around Richie to grab his facemasks from their drawer. Richie messes around with the sheet mask and makes stupid jokes, asking Eddie to help him put it on because he’s _that _hopeless. (Again, _why _Richie of all people!!!). Eddie corrals him to the bed and gingerly places it over his face, thumbs smoothing out the edges. Richie’s breathing is slow, and he’s watching Eddie intently, which might’ve made Eddie’s stomach twist up if Richie didn’t look like a fucking serial killer with it on.

He settles beside Richie and puts on his own, setting a timer once he’s done. Eddie has to yell at Richie for trying to talk and moving too much, because his mask keeps slipping off. Unfortunately, the silence means that Eddie’s left alone with his thoughts again. Now that Richie’s here, right next to him, it’s harder to think of all the reasons why Eddie shouldn’t like him. At the same time, it’s not as scary as he thought. He doesn’t want to, like, jump at Richie all of the sudden. And Richie doesn’t _seem_ to know what’s going on with him, so that’s good. Hopefully he doesn’t catch on before Eddie’s stupid brain just moves past all this.

Except, after they’ve taken off their masks and lay in companionable silence for a minute or two, Richie nudges him. “Hey, did I… do something to piss you off?”

Eddie swallows thickly, putting down his phone. “What?”

“Never mind, it’s nothing, it was dumb of me to bring up,” Richie dismisses, his voice nervous. Eddie goes to pick up his phone again, but then Richie starts speaking once more. “I mean, like, I thought we were totally fine, and then you ran out of Bill’s faster than two pump chump Henry Bowers. And now you’ve been avoiding me all week.”

“I’m not _avoiding _you,” Eddie replies instantly, and then remembers that, yeah, that’s sort of exactly what he’s been doing. Richie doesn’t seem very convinced either.

There’s no fucking way Eddie can tell him he’s been too afraid to be around him because he might _like_ him. But he also doesn’t want to lie outright, or act like he never did such a thing. Eddie’s dealt with that enough to know that it fucking sucks, and Richie doesn’t deserve that.

Eddie plays with the hem of his sweater, not looking at Richie. “Okay, so I sort of was. I’ve just been… confused and overwhelmed lately.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Richie frown. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s just shit I have to deal with on my own,” Eddie says.

For once, Richie presses him further. “Not if you’re way with dealing it is shutting everyone out, Eds.”

“That’s sort of hypocritical coming from you.”

Fuck. He didn’t mean to say that.

“What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?”

Eddie sighs. “I mean, you keep playing off everything as a joke when I ask you how you are. I don’t expect you to tell me everything, especially if you aren’t ready, but Stan said you’re going through some shit—”

“Whatever he said, don’t listen to him,” Richie interrupts. Which is sort of weird, because Stan said everything was cool between them again.

Eddie scoffs, “I have to, apparently, because you’re not telling me anything. You won’t even acknowledge there’s something wrong.”

Richie pointedly stares at his lap, fidgeting with his fingers and chipping away at the black nail polish Beverly painted on for him.

“Shit, I’m not trying to be an asshole,” Eddie sighs into the heavy silence, “I’m just worried about you. He said you’re doing dumb shit to pretend like you’re not avoiding your future.”

Richie lets out a humorless laugh. “_Wow_. Staniel doesn’t hold back, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Eddie agrees. “But is he right?”

Richie finally looks at him. “Fuck. Dude, I don’t wanna make you deal with this shit.”

“It’s not ‘making me deal with it’ if I asked, dumbass,” Eddie says, no heat in his voice despite his words. “And even if I didn’t, it’s _you_, Rich.”

Richie’s eyes soften, and he lets out an unsteady breath. “If I tell you, you can’t freak out or judge me, okay?

_Oh. _

“I wouldn’t judge you,” Richie gives him a level stare. _Yeah right_. “Okay, I wouldn’t judge you for shit that _matters_.”

“Seriously, Eddie, promise you’ll be chill.”

Whatever it is, it must be really serious if Richie’s acting like this. It makes him nervous, like whatever Richie is going to tell him is cataclysmic, forever changing their little world. It makes him feel worse about not really noticing, not trying to press hard enough before. But somewhere, deep in Eddie’s chest, a tiny spark of wondering and hope flickers. What if he’s freaking out the same way Eddie is? But that’s stupid and would mean he’s _actually_ freaking out about this, so he dismisses the brief idea.

Eddie hooks his pinky around Richie’s. “I promise to be completely calm, cool, and collected.”

“Okay,” Richie chews on his chapped lips. Their fingers stay interlocked as Richie says, “I don’t think I’m going to apply to college.”

“_What?!”_ Eddie shrieks. Then he realizes he’s being very decidedly _not_ chill and claps his hands over his gaping mouth.

Richie rolls his eyes. “Great job Eddie, you really kept it together.”

“Sorry!” Eddie squeaks, his voice still muffled by his hands. He slowly lowers them into his lap. “Sorry. I’m super okay. Not freaking out. All is good.”

“Clearly.”

Eddie tries to get his bearings before he fucks this all up and make Richie feel awful.

“Okay, not everyone goes to college. I mean, statistically speaking, you’ll be better off if you do—"

Richie waves his hand dismissively, “That’s just bullshit the admin feeds us so that we sell our souls to higher education and make them look good. None of that shit _really_ matters.”

Eddie gawks at him. “Rich, _please_ tell me you’re not basing this huge decision off of some anti-authority teenage angst.”

“What would reason would you think is ‘acceptable’?” Richie asks, some bite behind his voice. “School is boring and stupid, and all my teachers say I don’t ‘apply myself’ on every single progress report. Like, how the fuck is that gonna work for me in college?”

“You’re a fucking genius, Rich,” Eddie says, “Annoyingly so. Like, I’m constantly pissed off that you don’t study, and you do so well. Maybe you need something other than busy work and shit you already understand. I don’t _know_ if college will be easy for you, but you can’t just write yourself off like that.”

Richie process that for a moment and shifts in his spot on the bed. “Maybe,” he echoes, “But maybe I just don’t want to fucking go.”

Eddie frowns. Part of him selfishly wants Richie to apply, so that there’s a chance they might go to the same school. If Richie _really _doesn’t want to though, he can accept that. Or, at least, panic about it in his head for a few months until he eventually makes amends with it. He’s not in charge of Richie’s life. But it just doesn’t feel right. Like Richie’s keeping something from him.

“What happened to you talking about going off to college and getting the hell out of Derry all the time?”

Richie brings his knees towards his chest, curling into himself and making a noise that’s a poor attempt at disinterest. “I guess it’s just… I’m already a fucking failure,” his voice cracks, “So what’s the point?”

Eddie’s heart hollows out at the rawness in Richie’s voice, the weight behind his words. He’s feigning indifference, but Eddie can tell from his wide, uneasy eyes that Richie truly believes that about himself. That being a failure scares him.

“What? Rich, you’re not a failure.”

“I am, though. I’ve wasted my whole life dicking around, and I have no idea what I want to do with it,” Richie says, voice trembling as it grows louder. “Everyone thinks it. _I know it_.”

Eddie frowns. He hates that Richie thinks of himself that way. But he’s not really sure what to do to make him feel better, to help him realize he’s wrong. Usually, he’s the one that needs some sort of comfort and reassurance. Richie is rarely _this_ vulnerable with him.

“Hey,” Eddie says quietly, trying to bring Richie out of his own head. It doesn’t work.

Eddie decides to cross the imaginary boundary he’s created between them. He reaches out to touch his pale face, hands cupping his cheeks and turning Richie’s face towards him. Richie blinks quickly, mouth parting slightly in shock.

“Hey, listen to me. You’re not a fucking failure, okay?” Eddie sucks in his lower lip as he thinks, taking in the state of Richie for a moment. “That’s bullshit. I don’t think it. And _I know_ you’re not.”

Richie tries to shake his head, but it’s hard when it’s being held by Eddie. “Don’t say shit to make me feel better Eds. I mean, you have like, your whole life figured out.”

A sharp laugh escapes Eddie’s lips. “I don’t. I _really_ fucking don’t.”

“Don’t you have, like, a five-year plan?”

“Yeah, but I don’t… I don’t know who the _fuck_ I am, okay?” Eddie says, his fingers involuntarily pressing down lightly on Richie’s skin. He retracts them, hiding them under crossed arms. “Everything in my life has been filtered through or controlled by my mom, so I have, like, _zero_ life experience. And I feel like all of it, the sickness and the being delicate and _who I am _has all been a lie, and I don’t know if it was because of her or myself, so. No. I don’t have shit figured out either.”

He takes in a deep breath, trying to ignore the way his lungs are aching again.

“Hey,” Richie says gently, echoing Eddie, “_I know_ who Eddie Kaspbrak is.”

Eddie sighs. “Lemme guess, a tiny, spineless goblin who’s riddled with anxiety?”

Richie snorts, “I was actually thinking more ‘argumentative, pocket-sized feral cat with a dependence on WebMD’, but close enough,” he knocks his knee against Eddie’s. “I was gonna say that, Eddie Kaspbrak is a good friend. I don’t know where I’d be without him. He’s brave, and one of the toughest fucking people I know. Always has been.”

“Oh… Thanks.”

“And he’s so very cute, cute, cute!” Richie pinches Eddie’s cheeks, making him squirm.

Eddie knocks his hand away, “I take my thanks back.”

“Stop rejecting my love, Edward,” Richie pouts childishly.

Pointedly ignoring this, Eddie says, “So, seriously, if you weren’t afraid of failing, what would you do? Would you still wanna go?”

“I dunno, I guess getting away from home and living somewhere new sounds fun. And, of course, the partying,” Richie muses, making Eddie rolling his eyes. “I have no fucking clue what I’d wanna do. I guess-- you’re gonna think it’s stupid, but I’ve always wanted to do stand up, or have my own radio show. Something like that.”

“Well, you’d have to learn how to be funny first,” Eddie jokes, “But I can see it. You get this… There’s this look in your eye you get when you make everyone laugh. I think it’d be perfect.”

Richie smiles, “Yeah? Would you tune into my show?”

“I’m already bombarded with dick jokes and poor impressions involuntarily, I don’t know why I’d willingly listen to you,” Eddie quips. “But _maybe_ if you were good. Y’know, there’s classes you can take where you sign up for a show on the college radio station. And if you were doing standup… I mean, you’ll need another job to make ends meet. A degree makes that easier.”

“I was thinking I could just become a sugar baby.”

“You overestimate how good looking you are.”

Richie waggles his brows, “So you think I’m good looking, huh Eds?”

Eddie huffs, face reddening. Yeah, unfortunately, he fucking does.

“Overestimate. I said overestimate. Really, I think you’ve been listening to too much of your stupid screaming alternative shit,” Eddie crawls over Richie’s body and walks towards his desk. “Your hearing is awful.”

“_Suuuure_,” Richie singsongs, like the juvenile fucker he is. “What are ya doing Spagheds?”

Eddie rolls his eyes even though Richie can’t see his face, “I’m grabbing my college brochures for you.”

“Ugh, wait, you wanna do this right now?” Richie groans, “Tonight was supposed to be chill, and we already fucked up the vibes.”

“‘Vibes’? Shut the fuck up. We’re going to look at a few and figure some shit out. I’ll be here to help, okay?” 

Richie sighs deeply, “Okay. But can you show me where you’re applying first?”

Eddie grabs his laptop as well and settles back in the bed. “You shouldn’t just apply places because I am.”

A flash of hurt shows on Richie’s face, and Eddie’s chest pangs. How many times is he gonna say the wrong fucking thing tonight? He’s not even sure why he said it. Going to the same place would be the best-case scenario. But he also doesn’t want to hold Richie back.

“What, you don’t wanna go to college together? Tryna get rid of me?” Richie asks, attempting to affect a joking lilt to his voice, but he still has that disappointed look on his face.

“No!” Eddie blurts out immediately, “I mean, yeah, of course I’d like to go together. But we might not even be looking for the same things, y’know?”

“Well, I trust your judgement. But sure, I’ll look after. Maybe. Probably not. This shit is boring. We haven’t started and I’m already falling asleep.”

He fakes a yawn to accentuate his point.

Eddie rapidly types his password in, shaking his head, “‘This shit’ is your future. Why don’t you look through those while I do this?”

Richie picks up the thick stack of brochures and gawks, “Why the fuck do you have so many?”

“I like to be prepared,” Eddie shrugs, waiting for his shitty laptop to warm up. “Stan and I grabbed all the ones in the advising center.”

“Wait, holy shit, can we _pleaaaaaase_ go to Transylvania?” Richie thrusts one in his face, “I’ll never complain if I get to go to class with sexy vampires.”

“Aliens, Paul Bunyan, vampires… Your taste is questionable and disturbing.”

“Well, yeah, I _am _dicking down your mom—” Eddie digs his elbow into Richie’s side, and he cries out in pain, “Okay, okay, sorry!”

He brings up his meticulously organized documents and spreadsheets on his screen, full of details and dates and color coding. Eddie doesn’t realize how overwhelming it is until he looks over to see Richie wide eyed and confused.

Richie fixes his glasses and leans on Eddie’s shoulder to look closer at the screen. “Wow. I think my brain just shriveled up and melted out my ears.”

Eddie tries to explain the spreadsheet and goes through his main choices. Schools nearby, or more generally in Maine, to be safe, though he doesn’t really wanna stay here. From there he has things organized by programs he’s interested in, pricing, location, culture, and so on. Everything is rated on an intricate ten-point scale that gets calculated for the best score, and that’s how he’s narrowing down his list.

“NYU, huh?” Richie asks, interrupting Eddie’s tangent about public transit in Boston.

Eddie’s cheeks heat up. “Yeah, what about it, asshole?"

“Whoa, chill out Eds,” Richie shifts, taking his head off Eddie’s shoulder. “I’m just asking.”

“Oh. Sorry. I just thought because it’s so unrealistic for me…”

Richie shrugs, “I dunno, I can see it. You’re certainly angry enough to be a New Yorker. And you already have the coffee addiction.”

Eddie laughs, “Yeah, but it’s big city. And I’m… _me_.”

“Well, you’d have me, duh,” Richie says, “But I’m sure you could make it on your own too.”

Eddie tamps down a smile, “Maybe. I think you could be good there too. You’re already loud and obnoxious. Plus, you could totally blend in with the subway rats.”

“Oof. Low blow, Eddie.”

“You’d probably get beaten up though. I don’t think you’d be able to resist saying shit like ‘Ay, I’m walkin’ here!” Eddie grins, mimicking Richie’s poor impression of a New Yorker and waving his hands for emphasis.

Richie gasps, “What the fuck, I do _not_ sound like that. Mine is so much better.”

Eddie nods for Richie to prove it.

“AY,” Richie bellows, and Eddie can’t help but start laughing, “I’M _WALKIN’ _HERE_, MOTHERFU--”_

Downstairs, the front door slams closed, shaking the frame of the house. “Eddie bear, I’m home!”

Eddie and Richie freeze, Richie closing his mouth and failing to keep his laughs hidden.

“Stay fucking quiet and look through those while I say hi to her,” Eddie orders, voice stern.

“Aye, aye, cap’n!” Richie salutes. His stomach grumbles loudly as Eddie walks across the room.

Eddie doesn’t look back as he says, “I’ll get you some food too, dipshit.”

He descends the stairs and sees his mom put away groceries, mostly consisting of frozen stuff and processed foods.

“Took you a while to come down, Eddie,” his mom says suspiciously.

“Sorry mommy,” Eddie apologizes, cringing at the way he always reverts back to the doting, obedient son. “I was busy with homework.”

She closes the fridge and raises a brow, “Mhm…”

“How was your day?” Eddie quickly asks, trying to distract her.

Thankfully it works, and she rants as she putters around the living room. Something about all the delinquent kids in Derry, how the movies they show at the Aladdin are highly inappropriate, how she can’t _believe _Mr. Keene lets minors buy condoms. The usual. As she goes on and on about the immorality of today’s society and how the bagger at the grocery store was just horrendous, Eddie makes them sandwiches. Miraculously, she doesn’t notice that he’s making a third one. He makes sure to put extra slices of pear on Richie’s plate, because he’s pretty sure Richie’s immature aversion to fruits and vegetables is going to lead to scurvy if Eddie doesn’t force feed him Vitamin C.

Eddie places her food on the table beside her recliner and moves to leave, but she goes eerily quiet before clearing her throat and saying, “Eddie dear, aren’t you forgetting something?”

He clenches his fists under the sleeves of his sweater and doubles back to give her a brief kiss on the cheek. Before he turns around again, she catches his wrist.

“I hope you remember what I expect of you, Eddie,” she says, voice low and stare intense. Eddie’s stomach drops. She can’t know. She can’t fucking possibly have any idea about him. Or that Richie is upstairs. But there’s something underlying in her words, a threat. Maybe she does. He doesn’t know what’s scarier. Her knowing about their forbidden sleepovers, or her knowing that he might like guys_. _Either way, he loses Richie, and that can’t happen.

He nods ever so slightly, knees threatening to give out from underneath him. “Of course, Ma.”

She sends him a sickeningly sweet smile and drops her hold on him. “Good. Are you going to join me for dinner?”

“I, uh, I’m really busy with homework. Next time?”

Her thin lips purse in disapproval but she nods, letting Eddie go. “Don’t stay up too late. You need a good night’s sleep.”

Eddie grabs their plates with unsteady hands, trying to conceal them from her view. “Yes, Ma.”

He hurries up the stairs, closing his bedroom door slowly and resting his back against it with a sigh as it clicks.

“Finally. Was she begging me to come talk to her? Well, this dick is out of commission until she stops being a bitch about locking you up,” Richie says, looking up from his phone.

Eddie takes a few deep breaths, keeping his eyes screwed shut. “Not now, Rich.”

“Oh, shit. You good?”

“She’s just… being herself, y’know?” Eddie says, placing their food on his desk. “No eating on my bed.”

Richie groans but gathers up the brochures spread out on the bed and sets a few aside. He sits on top of Eddie’s desk, back to the wall and begins digging into his sandwich like he hasn’t eaten in days. It’s disgusting.

“Slow the fuck down or you’re gonna choke, dipshit,” Eddie chastises, taking a small bite of one of his triangular halves. “Did you even look at them?”

“Mhm,” Richie nods, a piece of lettuce falling out his mouth.

He doesn’t elaborate, so the two eat in silence, Richie glaring at the pieces of pear. Eddie gives him a look and Richie eats them unenthusiastically, pulling a face.

Eddie gives up on finishing his stats homework, hoping that he can get it done tomorrow morning since they have late start. They change into their pajamas, Richie’s usual ones are in the wash, so he steals some of Eddie’s. Most of Eddie’s shirts are oversized, so Richie looks perfectly fine in his shirt, the old yellow one he used to wear all the time when they were younger. However, the legs of his sweatpants end awkwardly, way above his ankle. Richie looks like he’s going to make a joke, but Eddie shushes him, pointing down to remind the other boy that his mom is home.

Belatedly, Eddie realizes he could’ve given Richie the hoodie he pulled on, since it’s technically one that Richie left behind one night. Richie used to wear it all the time during sophomore year, but he doesn’t seem to mind that Eddie’s wearing it. The only thing he does is pull the hood off Eddie’s head after Eddie pulls the drawstrings over his face, hiding from Richie.

“What’d I say about me not being able to see you the past couple weeks?”

Eddie rolls his eyes but keeps it down, scrolling through his phone. Richie shimmies down the bed, laying out and taking up too much space, so Eddie has to bend one of his legs.

They sit in a comfortable quiet, Richie for once not speaking, just drumming his fingers against his stomach with his eyes closed. When he stops, not long after Eddie hears his mom head to bed, Eddie almost thinks Richie’s asleep.

Then, he cracks an eye open and turns on his side towards Eddie. “Do you think we’ll be good roomies?”

The question catches Eddie off guard. “What?”

“Like, when we go off to college,” Richie explains, propping himself up on one elbow.

“Bold of you to assume I’d want you as my roommate in the first place,” Eddie teases.

Richie grins, “Sorry Eds, you’re not getting rid of me.”

It’s a joke, but it makes Eddie feel better about the anxiety he’s been harboring over their future. Of what it would be like without Richie. Maybe he doesn’t have to find out.

“Well, I guess I’m already used to all your weird sleeping habits.”

“Man, I hit the roommate lotto. Someone who knows me and loves to clean.”

Eddie groans, the back of his head knocking against the headboard. “Shit, I’m going to be stuck with a fucking slob and have to do all the work, aren’t I?”

“Hey!” Richie protests, “I’ll do stuff!”

“Like what, annoy me?”

Richie flips him off and pokes his sides in retaliation. “I can tell you jokes, and I make really fucking bomb mac n cheese—"

“Boxed?”

“Obviously. But when you snore, I won’t even complain. I’ll serenade you with my hand me down guitar, because we’ll be in New York so sooner or later I’ll have a phase where I think I can start a band. And I’ll get you your disgusting black coffee when you’re up late studying.”

He rests his head atop of Eddie’s bent knee, smiling up at him. The sight makes Eddie’s heart twist up, fondness filling his veins. He bites down a smile of his own, looking away when it becomes too unbearable.

“I don’t snore.”

Richie snorts and rolls off him. “Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night Eddie.”

“I’ll sleep if you shut up and go to bed,” Eddie says, getting up to turn off the light and then burying himself under the covers.

They get situated for bed, Richie kicking him as he rolls around to get comfortable. As comforting as the idea had been, seeing Richie like that, the way it made him feel… Eddie wonders if things would be so great if Eddie _actually_ liked Richie. What if Richie found out, and wanted nothing to do with him? He knows Richie doesn’t give a shit about Bev’s sexuality, but it’s different with Eddie. Especially if it has to do with his feelings for Richie.

But it’s still nothing. It means nothing that Eddie felt warm and excited over the prospect of them spending another chunk of their lives together. Of being able to explore a new city themselves and find all their favorite spots, to become whoever they’d want to be. Of sharing a room and Richie bringing him coffee and dancing around in their socks and being able to steal all his sweaters.

It means nothing that he’s transfixed by the small smile on Richie’s lips right now. That he wants to reach over and press him into the mattress before kissing them.

It can’t mean anything, because even though he’s scared to admit it, Richie means everything to him. Eddie can’t lose that.

\---

When Eddie’s alarm goes off, Richie is, unsurprisingly, sprawled all over him. His head is buried in the crook of Eddie’s neck, with one of his noodle arms draped across his stomach. Somehow, one of his legs is hooked over Eddie’s left and under his right.

Richie grumbles at the grating noise, burying his face even closer to Eddie. As Eddie tries to maneuver around him to get his phone, Richie holds on tighter, holding him down.

“_Nooo_,” Richie whines, his sleepy voice stifled against Eddie’s skin.

“I can’t turn it off if you don’t let me go, dipshit.”

He loosens his grip enough to allow Eddie to reach over him and turn off his alarm.

“What time is it?”

“Seven.”

“Eds, what the shit?” Richie groans, “I thought we don’t start ‘till ten today.”

“Yeah, but I want to eat breakfast from Stan’s work and hang out before class.”

“Fine. Can I sleep in a bit longer?”

“Fine. Twenty minutes.”

Richie wraps himself around Eddie once more, foiling Eddie’s plan of getting ready while Richie dozed some more. It’s also unfortunate, because Eddie is no longer distracted by a blaring alarm and clouded with sleep. Now he’s hyper aware of how their limbs intertwine, the soft brush of Richie’s breath against his neck, how Richie’s hand now rests atop Eddie’s heart.

It’s rare for Richie to sleep well because of his insomnia, so Eddie doesn’t usually have the opportunity to look at him like this. Of course, Richie sleeps better when he’s spending the night in Eddie’s room than his own, but even when Eddie awakens before the other boy, Richie wakes up quickly at any disturbance. Most of the rest he gets is fitful.

He must’ve been really tired lately, for him to be able to fall back under sleep’s spell so quickly. It can’t be very deep, but Richie’s face is peaceful, eyelashes fanned out across the tops of his freckled cheeks. Eddie wants to brush his thumb against the soft skin.

Actually, Eddie wants to scream and throw himself out the window for thinking that.

Once twenty minutes are up, Eddie nudges Richie, whispering at him to wake up. Richie groans again, lazily smacking his hand over Eddie’s face and telling him to shut up.

Eddie, very rationally, shoves him off the bed and onto the floor with a painful _thud_.

“What the fuck?!” Richie hisses, untangling himself from the blanket twisted around him.

Eddie shrugs, trying to pull off his most innocent face.

They get ready in silence, moving around each other easily as if it’s routine, though Eddie supposes it sort of is at this point. He checks to see if his mother is still upstairs before they get ready in the bathroom. Richie dances in the mirror beside him, trying to make Eddie grin, which works because it always does. 

Now that it’s November, the Maine air is starting to get bitingly chilly, seeping into their bones and causing his skin to be perpetually covered in goosebumps. Eddie bundles up, wrapping a scarf around his neck and pulling on cozy sweater and a cardigan that’s so large the sleeves hang over his hands. Richie, who has little self-preservation, almost crawls out of Eddie’s window with just the yellow t-shirt he slept in, but Eddie lobs a knitted sweater at him. Richie reluctantly tugs it on, making a big show about how he doesn’t want to. He ruffles Eddie’s hair just to be a fucking nuisance and sneaks out.

Eddie waits for Richie’s car to warm up a couple minutes before heading downstairs, saying goodbye to his mother as fast as possible. Sure, they did their usual trick of Richie pretending he had only just arrived to pick Eddie up, but he’s pretty sure his mom wouldn’t want Richie to be waiting out front anyways.

The car lurches and makes concerning noises as they drive downtown to the coffeeshop where Stan works, and Eddie worries that they’ll have to pull over and grab his emergency toolkit out of the trunk.

Richie pats the top of the dash as the metal frame shakes, “C’mon Muriel, you sexy beast, keep it together.”

It’s either that, Eddie whispering expletives under his breath, or dumb luck that gets them to their destination without breaking down. Even with Richie passing up a few good parking spaces because he refuses to parallel park.

They cross the street, leaves tumbling down the asphalt as a gust of wind picks up, making the ends of Eddie’s scarf wave wildly. The smell of freshly ground coffee wafts out onto the sidewalk from establishment, and Eddie hums contentedly.

It’s not just the good coffee that Eddie likes about Stan’s coffeeshop, though it really _is_ heavenly and better than the instant shit his mother buys. It’s always cozy, nestled in between the other small businesses that make up most of Derry. The windows are decorated for autumn, pumpkins in the sill and a wreath of orange leaves and pinecones adorns the door. Though he rarely gets to stay for very long, it’s always a nice reprieve from the whirlwind of his life as of late.

“Now presenting…” Richie announces using his British guy as he dramatically pulls open the door, “Lord Edward and Lord Richard of Shithole, Maine!”

Well, it can only be so relaxing when Richie’s involved.

Stan sends him an unimpressed glare from behind the counter. Eddie feels bad, but thankfully, the only people other people in the coffeeshop are Bill, Beverly, and some other person wearing comically large headphones near the back, facing away from the rest of the café.

“Great, just who I wanted to come in today. The town nuisance.”

“Hey, I know Eddie can be a lot sometimes but—”

Eddie smacks Richie’s arm, “Shut the fuck up Trashmouth. You’re paying now. Hi Stan.”

“Hey Eddie, I say politely and at an appropriate volume,” Stan grits out, looking pointedly at Richie. “What can I get you?”

“Just my usual, please,” Eddie says, watching as Richie messes up the display on the counter until Stan swats him away and fixes it. “And since Richie’s paying, I’ll have some of the pumpkin bread too.”

Stan smiles conspiratorially and takes a slice of the loaf out of the case full of baked goods. Richie sends him annoyed look as he drums his fingers on the countertop and stares at the menu.

“I’ll take the, what’s it fucking called. The Gooey Chocolate S’more one, but with like Nutella and—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Richie.”

“C’mon Stan the Man, y’know, the one that’s on the secret menu.”

Stan sighs deeply, “For the last time this is not a chain coffeeshop. We don’t use those shitty artificial ingredients or burn coffee and use gimmicky drinks to get business. I’m a serious barista. Frankly, I’m tired of people asking for these drinks with ridiculous names, like, Chunky Monkey, and assuming I know what they’re talking about…”

Stan continues to rant, and Eddie and Richie share a look. He can hear Bev trying to hold back her snickers from their table, but Bill just looks affectionately amused. Since getting his job at the café over the summer, Stan’s become a bit of a coffee snob, though he’s always been quite picky about that type of shit. His perfectionist nature does make him pretty damn good at his job though, which is part of the reason Eddie is there often enough to have a usual. That, and his caffeine addiction that only worsens as school gets more intense.

Once Richie orders a drink that’s actually on the menu, Stan shoos them away from the counter.

“I can’t focus with you heathens breathing down my neck.”

Eddie makes his way over to Bill and Bev’s table, where they’ve got textbooks and notebooks sprawled out. Richie only drops his bag down, and then goes to entertain himself at the coffee bar, counting all the sugar packets and snapping the wooden stirrers in half.

“Oh, Eddie, thank god, we can finally take a break,” Bev throws down her pencil before cracking her knuckles, “I think my hand is permanently damaged from taking all these notes.”

Bill takes a sip of his coffee and side eyes her over the blue ceramic mug. “We split the p-pages.”

“Hey, I skipped like, almost once a week last year. Be proud of me.”

“Baby st-steps,” Bill nods.

Bev turns her attention to Eddie, crossing her arms across the table and leaning forward. “So, I see Muriel hasn’t exploded yet?”

“She lives another day,” Eddie answers.

“Unfortunately,” he adds at the same time as Stan and Bev do. Bill barks out a laugh.

Richie turns around, “Hey, don’t be jealous because you guys don’t have cars.”

“I’m not. Bill drives me around and he’s a much better driver,” Stan replies, waiting for the milk to heat up.

“He ran like, five stop signs on our way here,” Beverly says.

Bill raises a brow, “Okay, but which one of us has passed their drivers test?”

“The guy I got was insane!”

“But did you have him the other two times?”

“I’m going to spit in your coffee.”

“Please don’t,” Stan says, placing Eddie and Richie’s drinks and food on the table, “I don’t want to violate health code.”

“No fair, you’re biased towards him.”

Stan shrugs, “You can do whatever you want to him. Just don’t do it in here.”

Bill’s eyes widen. “Et tu?”

Stan shrugs once more, sitting in the spot between Eddie and Bill, and sips on some tea he made for himself.

Richie makes his way to the table, sitting next to Eddie and throwing his arm around the back of his chair, “I thought you were too busy being a big shot bay-rista to hang out with us ‘heathens’, Stan.”

“I know you know how to say it correctly, Richie.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

Eddie goes to take a big drink of his coffee, yelping when it burns his tongue. Richie rubs his shoulder soothingly, but Eddie shrugs him off.

“I’m fine.”

The other three exchange a glance before Bev clears her throat. “So! Do you guys have any plans for Thanksgiving?”

It’s a couple weeks away, but November always moves by fast during school, and they’re all counting down the days until break. However, Eddie will be subject to the unique torture of driving a couple towns over with his mom and have dinner with her extended family, who are somehow even more insufferable than she is. His aunt interrogating him about school and girlfriends as they eat bland box mashed potatoes is not high on the list of his favorite things in the world. It places even lower this year, when it will inevitably shift to the college applications and decisions that make the bags under his eyes worsen every night. The questions about girls will likely go from teasing and protective to downright accusatory and suspicious. Eddie has no desire to deal with their ignorance on top of everything else he’s dealing with.

Stan and Richie are celebrating together since their families are close friends, and they both speak excitedly and at length about the delicious matzo ball soup Stan’s mom makes.

Bill shrugs dejectedly, “We p-probably won’t do anything this year. We haven’t s-s-sssince…”

Beverly threads their hands together on top of the table. “Well, you can hang out with me and my aunt if you want.”

“You s-sure?”

“Of course,” Bev nods, “You know how much she loves you. It probably won’t be as tasty as theirs, but we’re going to order a bunch of takeout, watch the parade, and play games.”

Bill smiles softly, “Yeah, I’d like that, as long as she’s f-fine w-with it.”

Eddie watches as Bill squeezes her hand before letting go. 

He often forgets that they used to date back in sophomore year, dancing around each other in circles since the summer after eighth grade, only to break up after a few months. Things were a little awkward right after, but now it’s like it never happened, except for small moments like these. Reminders that Bill would drop Beverly off after their dates and talk to her aunt, or tiny reassuring touches. Eddie doesn’t understand how they are so easy around one another, how they can be so close without any resentment or lingering feelings.

Eddie tunes back into the conversation the other four are having, Bill and Stan lamenting the woes of taking AP classes.

“He doesn’t explain _anything_, how am I supposed to even get a three on the exam, let alone a four or five? I need the credits if I want to get a head start on my accounting courses,” Stan rants, “I mean, you get what I mean, right Richie?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

Stan continues to vent, Bill nodding along intently. Eddie tries to follow as well, but Richie’s leg is bouncing wildly against his own, making it hard to stay focused.

“Hey, Bev, baby, my love,” Richie says, interrupting Stan. Eddie’s heart twists cruelly at the affectionate name. “Do you got any smokes?”

Huh. Eddie knows Richie smokes cigs, but lately he smokes more weed than nicotine. Probably because Eddie rails on him about it all the time.

“Of course,” Beverly smiles, readjusting one of her many colorful clips in her hair. It’s at the point where it’s long enough to get in her face, but too short to tie up. She digs into her bag and pulls out a pack. “We’ll be back.”

“Don’t smoke right out front!” Stan calls after them.

Richie gives him a crude gesture, but they go and sit on the hood of his car across the street and light up. Stan sighs, shaking his head. Bill grabs his hand and starts to talk about something else. Instead of listening, Eddie looks past Bill’s shoulder as Richie lights the cigarette hanging from his lips. He takes a long drag, blowing the smoke up in the air and he leans back against the windshield, one hand behind his head. It’s unfairly enrapturing.

"How did you know you liked Beverly?” Eddie blurts out before he can stop himself.

Bill stops speaking, blinking back at Eddie confusedly. “I’m sorry, w-what?”

“Beverly. Marsh.”

“I know wh-who you’re talking about Eddie,” Bill rolls his eyes. “B-but, I… Th-that was so long ago. I don’t like her that way anymore.”

He looks at Stan, concern apparent in his blue eyes.

“Oh, I get it now,” Eddie says, looking between them.

Bill’s brows furrow. “You do?”

“You don’t want Stan to judge you. C’mon, it’s not like we didn’t all watch you get all flustered around her for three years.”

Laughter erupts from Stan’s throat, and he covers his mouth in a poor attempt at hiding it. They share another look.

Eddie takes a sip of his coffee, less hot now. “Well, Stan, if you’re gonna act like that, go away.”

Stan raises a brow at him. “I’m not Richie. You can’t just boss me around. And I can’t _leave_, I’m working my shift.”

“Yes, you’re working so very hard right now,” Eddie deadpans.

Stan’s eyes narrow and Eddie makes a shooing motion.

“Fine. I’ll be three feet over. In this small café. Definitely won’t be able to hear you at all,” Stan quips, walking back behind the counter.

After a moment, Eddie turns back to a very confused looking Bill. “So, how’d you know?”

“H-hold on, why are you asking?” Bill questions, folding his arms over the table.

Eddie squirms in his seat. “Can’t I just be curious?”

“No. You used to tell me to sh-shut up when I talked about Bev because it was ‘b-b-boring’.”

“Because it was,” Eddie retorts automatically. “It’s for an English assignment.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

Eddie scowls at him. “Just answer the question Bill.”

“Okay. I don’t r-really r-remember when I _knew_, I just did,” Bill shrugged, wrapping his hands around his mug. “B-but I liked her for a long time, I guess. Sh-she’s cool, and nice, and I liked being around her. How she made me feel.”

Eddie takes a sip of his coffee, considering Bill’s words. Richie is not cool, not really. Even if he does ‘cool’ things like smoke and drink, he’s a giant fucking dork. He can be nice, Eddie supposes, but more often than not Richie is vulgar and teasing. Though, Eddie loathes to admit, he does like being around Richie. How _does_ he make him feel though, really? It’s not always nice. He feels everything around Richie. Comfortable, angry, happy, sad, too big for his body, safe, unsure.

_Wrong_?

“So, how’d you get over it so quick after she dumped you?”

“_Wh-what?!”_ Bill splutters, almost spitting out his drink everywhere. “Bev didn’t _dump_ me.”

“Oh, I just assumed, since she’s so… well…”

The end of the sentence lingers in the air, Eddie not wanting to finish it. Of course he thinks Bill is great and cool, but Beverly’s just… effortlessly amazing. Plus, Bill was always a little more into her than she was with him.

Bill sighs deeply, “We decided we’re b-better off as friends. _Mutually_.”

That makes Eddie lean forward in his seat. Better as friends. This whole thing could totally end up being nothing.

“But you were obsessed with her forever,” Eddie says, “How did you decide that? Did everything you feel just go away?”

Bill leans back in his chair and lets out a loaded breath. “No, I mean, I still l-love her, it’s just… _different. _B-both are important, but there’s something different between p-p-platonic and romantic love, I think. You can love someone but not be _in_ love with them.”

“What the fuck does that even mean? You just used the same exact fucking word,” Eddie says, exasperated. Sometimes Bill’s stupid romantic writer brain was confusing. But, that’s why Eddie’s asking _him_ about all this. And, he’s the only one of the losers that really has experience being in a relationship, specifically with his best friend.

“It’s just a _f-fff-feeling_. I can’t describe it. You just know.”

Eddie huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He leans forward, gesturing aggressively with his hands, “Obviously I don’t fucking _know_, Bill, that’s why I’m asking you.”

“Why are you getting so worked up over this if it’s just for an assignment?” Bill smirks.

Eddie freezes, closing his mouth and clasping his hands together.

“I need a good grade,” Eddie lies, “And you’re supposed to be the one who’s going into creative writing. So, _try_ to explain it to me?”

Bill shakes his head, laughing softly to himself.

“Love is…” He fixes his sleeves of his red flannel as he thinks, and stares off to the side, over by the front counter. “They just make you feel it _all_. They consume your thoughts, but you don’t even mind it. Even if shhh-i-it gets hard, you try. You fight for them. Because they make anywhere, even the darkest places, feel like home.”

There’s a loud noise from behind him, where Stan fumbles with a few mugs. It hides the shaky breath Eddie lets out of his nose.

Because Richie makes him feel it all. He’s all Eddie’s been able to think about the past few days. With him, Eddie is safe and secure. Even the scary prospect of moving away and starting a new life seems easy if it’s with Richie.

“And of course, I’d f-f-fight for Beverly, or any of you,” Bill continues, ripping Eddie from his thoughts. “But the difference was that we were just infatuated with each other. The _idea _of b-being together. I think part of the reason it didn’t work was because we both assumed all our p-problems would s-ssuddenly vanish when we got together. But it doesn’t w-w-work like that.”

Oh. Okay. Eddie can totally work with that. In fact, it makes _so _much sense. Everything he’s been feeling for Richie is just infatuation. Of course, Eddie wants to be in a relationship one day, and it’s easiest to think about it with the person he spends most of his time with.

Yes. It’s an infatuation born from the fact that Eddie is dealing with so much right now. He’s scared of losing Richie and all his other friends, so this is his brain’s weird way of trying to keep Richie close. That he thinks, for some fucking reason, that Richie could fix all of it. Sure, Richie does have a track record of knowing how to talk Eddie down, or get him to open up, but that’s just friend stuff. He’s conflating plutonic and romantic love, or whatever the fuck Bill had called it.

The bell above the door chimes as Richie and Beverly walk back in, laughing about something. They settle back into their seats, Bill roping Beverly back into working on their notes.

“Okay Eds,” Richie scoots his chair closer to him, the legs screeching against the floor. “Lemme help you with your stats homework.”

Eddie pulls out his book and they work on the problems together. Richie has to try a few times to figure out how to best explain everything to Eddie, at first too straightforward, and then too abstract, but slowly Eddie starts to understand the material. Even when Richie leans a little too close and Eddie gets distracted by the lingering smell of smoke on his sweater. Eddie’s sweater, actually, which looks nice on Richie.

But it’s, if anything, just a simple crush. Eddie looks at Bill and Beverly across from them. Bev nudges Bill and points out a portrait of some ugly old white dude in their history textbook. They laugh and joke and move on, no moony eyes or touches or anything.

It reminds Eddie that whatever he’s feeling for Richie is temporary. Soon, he’ll be over it, maybe even laugh about how silly it had been years down the line.

In fact, he giggles to himself now, making Richie pause as he tries to break down the word problem they’re working on. Because, seriously, how fucking funny is it that Eddie thought, even for a moment, that he really liked Richie like that?

“What’s so funny?” Richie asks.

Eddie smiles, shaking his head. “Nothing. It’s absolutely nothing at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lernglerngnerglknerglernglnerglknreg eddie is literally so dumb!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! anyways i hope y'all enjoyed this!!! feel free to come talk to me over on tumblr, now @mikeshanlon.
> 
> oh also like literally not that you should be taking any advice from a random fic on ao3 to heart or whatever LKGNLKRNG but The Typical College Path is not for everyone so don't think that that's my like.... thesis or whatever just bc Eddie encourages Richie to apply (and you'll see later that shit regarding that is not so clear cut....). Don't feel like you have to go or that you're lesser for stuff not panning out, I totally relate hard to that.


	4. december

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay WOW hi!!! long time no update. sorry about that, per usual school and personal life was quite disruptive, and on top of that this ended up being the longest chapter yet with 20.6k words lmao..... anyways, thank you so much for your patience and support, seriously all the kind messages i got on tumblr really motivated me and i appreciate it more than you know.
> 
> warnings: smoking weed, panic attacks, mentions of grief (georgie and eddie's dad), and per usual with eddie kaspbrak, repression/internalized homophobia. 
> 
> hope you enjoy this chapter!

Miraculously, whether it’s due to the holidays or not, Eddie makes it through the first semester of senior year. If he made it out unscathed is debatable, since there’s a lot going on in his life right now. But his grades didn’t tank after finals-- in fact, his GPA is pretty high right now, despite how much he freaked out over it over the past couple weeks.

He probably (okay, definitely) drove the losers crazy with his ranting and worrying, his usual anxious state only exacerbated by looming college applications. So, really, his mental wellbeing is not the best it could be from all the stress, including his sexuality-crisis-that-is-not-a-sexuality-crisis, but he’s still standing. That has to count for something.

Stan was right, that being with all of them helps. Even if they don’t know the full extent of everything going on in Eddie’s life, they’re always there for him. Whether it was studying together in the library, usually with Ben, hunched over his textbooks with a plethora of pens and dangerous amounts of caffeine coursing through his veins. Ben’s always nice to study with, since he’s organized, smart, and quiet, but not so much that he wouldn’t answer Eddie’s questions or enjoy a nice break talking about nothing.

(Mike and Stan joined them too, a couple times, but Mike gets so in the zone that it’s sort of scary, and the disorderly mess of open books he created irritated an already snappy Stan. He had berated Eddie for ‘breathing too loudly’ but brought him a coffee the next morning to apologize).

Other times it was just listening to him. Bev had listened to his lamenting and pulled him to a hug when he almost broke down in the parking lot. Bill had talked Eddie down from a panic attack about his English essay (which he had looked over for Eddie the other day) and helped him stress clean his locker. And Richie’s. Because holy _shit_ Richie’s locker was a mess, and there’s no way Eddie would let some forgotten lunch rot in the locker next to him over break and get his own infested or foul-smelling.

Richie had walked up to them dumping his clutter in the trash and fished out the harmonica he’d been obsessed with playing at the start of the schoolyear from the recesses of his locker. Stan, who had just come out of AP Calc with Richie, promptly snatched it from his hands as he began to play.

_(“Bill, I thought you said you hid this thing!”_

_“I did. You th-think Richie would’ve ever cleaned out his locker and f-found it on his own?”)_

Which was sort of how Richie was during all of finals. Purposefully distractive and disruptive. He’d come over and bother Eddie at night, closing his books and forcing him watch movies. Or he’d stroll into the library on campus in pajamas, yelling in the quiet section and dragging Eddie away from his last-minute cramming. (_“Eddie, you get too uptight before exams and psych yourself out. You’re going to do fine. The best thing you can do is try to chill the fuck out.”_)

Eddie supposes that in his own way, Richie helped him, but he would never admit it.

After a day of hibernating once finals were finished, Eddie’s been finishing up his college applications, going over every minute detail a thousand times. They’re pretty much finished, but he keeps holding onto them, just in case he made a mistake.

He’s also been helping Richie, who only really seriously started the process in November, with his. Richie’s a little clueless but he’s trying, and Eddie’s already overprepared so he doesn’t really mind. Sometimes he’ll ask genuine questions, and half of the time Eddie will just tell him to stop by so he can help him in person. It’s easier that way, showing Richie what to do rather than have him parse through Eddie’s overcomplicated instructions buried within a wall of rambling text.

But he’ll also send Eddie joking questions late at night, like, ‘_do u think i can put listening to ben pine over bev as community service?’. _Eddie attributes it to Richie’s insomnia and general Trashmouth-ness, though part of him wonders if Richie’s trying to destress Eddie. They always seem to come in when Eddie’s found himself lost in hours of research or editing his essay. And no matter how ridiculous, they never fail to make Eddie laugh.

Right now, he’s taking a break from his seemingly unceasing work by getting together with the losers at Bill’s home to exchange gifts before Ben and Stan head out of town the next couple days.

Ben’s heading back to his hometown to visit family, though he doesn’t seem very excited about it. Eddie knows that Ben didn’t have really have friends before he moved to Derry, so there’s likely no one there to hang out with in his free time. Eddie and Bev reassure Ben that they’ll text him often.

Meanwhile, Stan will be heading to Boston first, to tour a couple colleges and check out what the city is like. Eddie decided Boston wasn’t for him, but Stan and Bill have been speaking excitedly about going and all the plan they’ll make, if they get it in to their respective schools. (Bill’s already awaiting his acceptance letter, having applied for early action at Emerson).

After that he’s headed to New York, off to hang in Central Park and watch some shows on Broadway and all that touristy stuff. (Stan is dreading going to Time’s Square because of the crowds and loudness of it all). Eddie would ask him to report back, since his own mother would never let him go and he trusts Stan’s judgement, but he still feels too ashamed to admit that he wants to go to NYU. He doesn’t think Richie’s talked about it either, plus he’s not as obsessive as Eddie is. It’s unlikely he’d ask Stan to check it out for him. 

Their holiday party is supposed to be non-denominational, since Stan and Richie don’t celebrate Christmas, but the Denbrough residence is decorated with a large glowing tree, some sort of Santa in each room, and a nativity model takes up most of the mantel above the fireplace. (Baby Jesus is missing, and Eddie’s pretty sure that’s where Richie got the figurine that he’s hung off his rearview mirror like a pair of dice). According to Bill, they’re hosting the rest of their family this year, so that’s why it’s decorated more than usual. That, and Georgie’s favorite holiday was Christmas.

Eddie enjoys it too, at least this part of it. Being with his friends and donning the ugly sweaters Ben gave them back in sophomore year, sipping hot cocoa by the crackling fire and talking away. While he loves the lights and the festive music playing in the background of their chatter, (though it’s not quite background music, as Richie keeps stopping mid-sentence to scream “_HOLIDAYS!_” whenever they sing about Christmas), Eddie hates the way things get at home this time of year. Since he saw his relatives over Thanksgiving (which was predictably a mess of invasive questions and ignorant comments), it’s just him and his mom. But she still expects them to sit around the tree and do Christmas dinner and be her doting naïve son. It’s even worse lately, now that he’ll be off to college soon. Eddie’s pretty sure she’s onto the fact he’s not planning on sticking around Maine after graduation if he can help it. And even though it happened when he was so young, the holidays always make the absence of his father more noticeable.

Also, holy fucking _shit_, is it stressful trying to figure out what to get everyone.

They’ve been doing this since freshman year, and Eddie still second guesses his choices despite spending forever researching what to get them. Beverly just told him what she wanted last year, and he got it, but he also had to get another gift for her because that felt like cheating.

But so far, everyone’s loved their present. Bill lets out a soft gasp when he sees the collector’s edition of his favorite novel, and Mike shows off his beautiful smile at the ceramic pots and seeds Eddie picked out. Across from him, Richie clutches onto the vinyl’s Eddie gave him, keeping them close against his chest. Eddie’s happy Richie loves them so much, since it took forever to track them down. Stan teases Eddie for ‘being lazy’ and putting everything in bags, but still seems impressed with the bird puzzle he got.

Which, by the way, Eddie was not lazy. He just got frustrated with trying to get everything perfectly wrapped and had wasted a lot of paper. Not everyone could get such clean, sharp edges like Stan did. Except Bill’s look nice, but Eddie’s pretty sure Stan wrapped them too, because the journal Bill bought for Stan is the only one of his that looks awful. Mike’s gifts are Eddie’s favorite, since he included some pictures from his polaroid collection with the ribbons and bows. One of gift receiver and Mike, and one of all the losers. Of course, Eddie loved the comic Mike got him, but he’s sure he’ll cherish the photographs even more.

Beverly’s is… not great, but the paper is cute, and besides, they’re sort of hard presents to wrap. She’s been knitting something for each of them the past year, a beanie for Bill, a little sheep for Mike, a bag for Ben’s books, and so on. As Eddie unwraps his now, he sees that she’s knit him a nice long scarf made of deep red yarn.

“I figured it’d keep you warm, since you always get so cold.”

“Thanks Bev,” Eddie smiles, wrapping it around his neck, “I love it.”

Richie pushes a present towards Eddie. “Go on, open mine next! I think my gift goes with hers.”

Eddie looks warily between Richie’s excited grin and the gift wrapped shoddily with newspaper. He barely used enough, and Eddie can see glimpses of the box underneath trying to escape. He doesn’t trust it, mostly on the principle that it’s from Richie, and he’s a shithead.

“C’mon, don’t be scared.”

“Yeah, that’s reassuring.”

He carefully opens the wrapping even though it’s so shitty, taking his time and slowly lifting the top of the box. Inside, he’s horrified to discover an elf hat and some trashy matching lingerie, lacy and over complicated yet barely enough fabric to cover anything. Of course. It’s a reference to one of Eddie’s hated Christmas traditions, Richie calling him ‘Eddie the Elf’.

Eddie’s jaw drops as he takes the undergarments out, eyebrows going in the opposite direction but just as dramatically. Richie’s laughing so hard that he’s clutching his sides in pain, while the others snicker lightly, waiting for Eddie to explode over how inappropriate the gift is. And Eddie wants to, in fact, he has a rant already thought up as he holds the G-string in shock, waiting for his mouth to work.

Instead, he says, “I can’t believe you’d think I’d wear something as trashy as _this_.”

Now Richie’s the one stunned into silence, but it doesn’t last long, because he and the other losers burst out into laughter.

“Oh shit,” Richie gasps for air, “Eddie the Elf gets off a good one!”

Eddie flings the underwear at Richie’s face like a rubber band in retaliation.

Once the laughter dies down, they finish up opening up the other gifts, but Eddie’s can’t pay attention. Sure, Richie’s not known for giving super serious presents, but he’d been a bit better about it this year. A bit of sentimentality slipping through, probably because this is last the year it’ll be like this, exactly the same as it always is. Eddie was impressed by the secret kindness behind what Richie gave the others, like the golden tit plush he gave Stan. Richie obviously picked the bird because of its inappropriate name, but it’s still something Stan loves, and something for Stan to keep around to remember Richie and all the times he’s joked about it obnoxiously. Though there’s still a weird tension lingering around them lately, Stan smiled despite himself and promised he’d showcase it in his room when he’s off at college. Richie looked pleased.

So, Eddie’s not totally stupid for thinking he’d get something similar, or maybe a little more meaningful. They’re all close, but him and Richie are the closest with one another. Eddie tries not to think about it lately, because of his extraneous feelings, but they have a certain special connection. He thought that was understood between them.

But Eddie had been given the worst gift. Maybe the worst one Richie’s ever given him. (Though freshman year he did give Eddie an album of one of his favorite artists, except he replaced the disk with him doing purposefully awful covers of every song). He doesn’t know whether he’s more embarrassed about the nature of the gift, or that he got his hopes up.

He stays quiet as the last presents are opened, biting the inside of his cheeks and facing away from Richie, focusing on the light snowfall outside.

Soon there’s the rustling of wrapping paper being thrown away, and the others breaking from the circle. Bill and Bev go off to find some board games in his garage, and he vaguely hears Richie say he has to go get something from his car. The other four stay in the living room, Stan and Mike sitting close together and looking over their gifts. Stan leans back onto Mike’s chest, the other boy resting his chin atop Stan’s head as they flip through the cryptology book Ben gave him. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Ben leaving something small on Bev’s pile of presents. It might be one of Ben’s signature cards, always heartfelt with funny pictures, but Eddie thought Bev already got one.

Richie comes back in, his glasses fogged and nose flush from the biting chill.

“Eds, help me find the special eggnog in the fridge?” Richie says, kicking off his Doc Martens and not waiting for a response as he heads towards the kitchen.

Eddie’s face twists up. He doesn’t really want to talk to Richie right now. Also, “I fucking hate eggnog.”

“Just come help please?” Richie calls out from the kitchen.

He lets out a dramatic sigh but gets up, dragging his feet on the carpet. He decides to be difficult and not help, sitting on the countertop instead.

“What’s so ‘special’ about this eggnog?” Eddie crosses his arms.

“Huh? Who gives a shit about eggnog?” Richie says, jumping onto the countertop next to him.

Eddie blinks at him. “You?”

“Oh. Yeah, I just said that because I just wanted to show you something.”

“And you couldn’t just show me out there?”

Richie looks at his hands in his lap. “Yeah, well, it’s something just for you. That gift I gave you out there wasn’t my real gift for you.”

“Oh,” Eddie responds lamely.

He wants to ask why Richie didn’t just give whatever it is to him in the first place, but Richie’s fidgeting nervously, heels hitting the cabinets as he swings them back and forth. Must be something embarrassing, and not holiday lingerie embarrassing.

“Uh, so. Here you go,” Richie hands him a box, “Merry Christmas.”

Eddie looks at the box in his hands. It’s still messily wrapped with newspaper, though what he finds inside is what matters. A bicycle gear, the same one that Eddie always had to put back on Richie’s bike when they were kids, before Richie got his old station wagon for Eddie to fix.

To anyone else, it would still seem that Richie is a shitty gift giver and gave him a greasy piece of junk, but Eddie knows what it means. It’s something to remember all the good times they had as kids despite all the pressure and noise-- the fleeting moments of freedom and scraped knees, freckles forming as they laughed and licked at their ice cream under the sun. It’s something to remember _Richie_ by. A tangible piece of their friendship, the trust they put in one another. Weighted metal to bring him back to Earth and remind him that there’s someone looking out for him, no matter how far.

Eddie’s breath hitches at the sudden wave of emotions that hit him. At a loss for words, he carefully runs his thumb along the metal teeth, which have developed a patina over the years.

He finally dares to look at Richie, who is watching him expectantly behind his glasses, leaning into his space. A nervous laugh escapes his lips, “So, um… Do you like it?”

Eddie still doesn’t know what to say, and he doesn’t trust his voice anyways, the way his throat feels thick with emotions that are threatening to spill out at any second. Instead, he pulls Richie into a hug, which is sort of awkward with the way they’re sitting, and that Eddie is still holding the bicycle gear, but he hopes it conveys his gratitude well enough.

“Thanks Rich,” Eddie says into his neck. They pull apart after a moment and the air feels too charged. Eddie needs to dissipate it. “But if you try to give me something as awful as that lingerie again I’m going to throw all your presents into Bill’s fireplace.”

Richie snorts, “Noted.”

Ben pokes his head into the kitchen. “There you guys are. We’re about to start.”

Richie hops off the counter as Eddie puts away his gift. They wait for him under the archway, Richie making some joke that makes Ben look embarrassedly at his shoes. Eddies halts once he notices what’s hanging over them.

“Uh oh, Spaghettio, what’s the matter?” Richie asks, noticing Eddie’s sudden stop. He looks up at where Eddie is staring. “Oh shit, mistletoe!”

There’s a whistle from the other room.

Ben’s face burns bright red, “Uh…”

“Wow, Haystack, you didn’t need to set up this elaborate plan to get me to kiss you,” Richie smirks, “You could’ve just asked.”

“I don’t want to kiss you.”

“Well it’s the law, right Eddie?”

Eddie puts his hands up in surrender, “I’m not participating in this.”

Ben sighs, “Fine, since I know you won’t drop it.”

Richie grabs Ben’s face and plants a sloppy and exaggerated kiss just at the corner of his mouth. The losers whoop and cheer from the living room.

“Don’t worry Benny Boy,” Richie says quietly, “I won’t take your kiss virginity. We’ll save that for the person you actually want to kiss.”

Ben rolls his eyes, trying to ignore the intense flush across his full cheeks, and walks back into the living room to the other losers still clapping.

“After you?” Richie waggles his brows, staying under the archway. After a moment Eddie realizes what Richie’s trying to do. They’d both be under the mistletoe.

Eddie flips him off, ignoring the traitorous part of his brain that’s tempted. “Ha. Ha. _Suuuuuuuper_ funny.”

He may have gone a bit overboard in his insistence that he didn’t want to, but Richie just shrugs and pushes himself off the wall, curtsying as the others continue to holler.

“Thank you, thank you, I know,” he bows deeply.

Eddie shakes his head at Richie’s antics and looks down at the box in his hands, a small smile spreading across his lips.

\---

It’s Christmas Eve, and Eddie can’t sleep. Not because he’s excited for the following morning, but rather, dreading it. Being stuck in the house with his mother the past few days has been driving Eddie insane, and he doesn’t know if he can last much longer without snapping. She’s been extra overbearing, getting upset with him over little things like making his cocoa too hot, or thinking he’s allergic to the tree because he sneezed once. He’s also pretty sure she’s been snooping in his room, because his desk was not the way he left it when he came back from his shower earlier in the evening. Thankfully, he’s hidden any college paperwork and the password on his laptop is strong.

From years of experience, he knows his mother will make a big deal about tomorrow, ever the upholder of tradition. And it’ll be worse, because she’ll cry at every little thing and say he’s growing up too fast, that it’s the last time they’ll ever open presents or sit by the fire or have Christmas dinner like this. Whatever she can do to try to guilt him into not going to college, in Maine or otherwise.

Also, it’s around this time of year that the fact that his father is dead comes to the forefront of Eddie’s mind. He was so young when it happened, and while it hurt a lot those first couple years, the absence of his father has been the norm for most of his life. During the rest of the year, there may be passing moments where he thinks about his father, but his memories are hazy.

But really, come Christmastime, Eddie thinks more about what could’ve been, rather than what was. A tiny bit of Eddie still hopes to see him, sat by the tree and drinking coffee when he pads down the stairs on Christmas morning. Maybe they’d split the cookies they made last night, sneaking them from his mother. Maybe he’d actually know Eddie, understand him. Then maybe he’d actually receive something he likes, instead of the generic or passive aggressive gifts from his mother.

That’s not really why Eddie wonders about it though. What he wonders, what he hopes, is that things would be different. That he’d be happier, _freer_ with his father around. He wouldn’t be forced to be some delicate thing, wouldn’t be so cautious.

Wouldn’t feel so wrong at the possibility that he may be different.

But it doesn’t matter much, because there’s no way to bring him back. Eddie is stuck with his mom scolding him for going out in the snow or making him feel guilty over nothing. The other day, when Eddie wasn’t swayed by his mother’s manipulation, she said, “What would your father think, Eddie?”

He doesn’t know, so he holds onto the happy moments at the edge of his memories to tide him over, especially when his mother gets upset over something bigger than the winter chill.

So, it’s the anxiety and grief plaguing his thoughts that keeps him up late enough to see Richie’s text after midnight.

_bill and i are outside rn _

_wanna go for a ride?_

Eddie wasn’t expecting them, obviously, but even in his sleep deprived state it isn’t hard to figure out why they’re out this late. He’s not the only one missing someone during the holidays. Christmastime without Georgie is hard for Bill.

Richie’s likely there because he’s a reckless insomniac, which means he takes just about any opportunity to sneak out of the house. And because it’s Bill. That’s why Eddie replies that he’ll be down in a minute and starts tugging on his boots over his fuzzy penguin socks. It’s Bill, and it’s Richie. No matter where life takes them next fall, the three will always be there for each other. They have been since they were little kids.

Who gives a shit if he gets caught by his mom? At least there’ll be something actually interesting to talk about over dinner.

As he grabs his coat, gloves, and a scarf, Eddie thinks he’s sounding like Richie. Rebellious and irresponsible. Maybe his mother is right, that they’ve been spending too much time together.

He slowly opens his window and feels the sharp winter wind bite at his face. It stings, but it’s refreshing. It reminds him that he’s alive.

Maybe he’s sounding more like himself.

The problem is, he’s only snuck out a couple times, and it’s never been with snowy sludge that blanketing the piece of roof under his window. How the fuck does Richie do this all the time?

Eddie shuffles and climbs down the trellis as cautiously as he can, though he also wants to get the hell out of the snow and into Bill’s warm car.

He’s just gotten down to the ground when Richie decides he’s not being fast enough and rolls down his window.

“Hurry up shithead!”

Bill swats at his head and rolls up the window again.

Once inside the car, Eddie sighs in relief, reveling in the warmth finding its place back in his bones. Bill may have a basic car, but at least he has a heating system that works. Last week Eddie donated a few of his own blankets to the back of Richie’s car so that they could bundle up when he gave him a ride.

“H-hey Eddie,” Bill looks back at him and smiles, or at least as much as he can in his state.

Richie looks back as well but instead of smiling, shakes his head. “I’m disappointed in you, Eds.”

“What? Why? I haven’t even been here for a minute, asshole.”

“You’re not wearing that sexy little elf number I got for you!”

Eddie rolls his eyes and buckles his seatbelt. “You’ll have to forgive me for not wearing your awful gift in this freezing weather.”

“It’s okay, you can show them off to me tonight when I come down your chimney,” Richie grins, waggling his brows suggestively.

Maturely, Eddie leans forward to rip Richie’s olive-green beanie off his head and starts to hit him with it.

“G-g-guys, c-cut it out.”

Through a shared look, Eddie and Richie make a silent truce, knowing that Bill shouldn’t have to deal with their bickering tonight. Still, if they stop their usual back and forth altogether, Bill will feel frustrated and weak, like they’re walking eggshells around him. So, Eddie tugs Richie’s beanie atop his own head and sticks his tongue out.

“Be careful, I think I have lice,” Richie says, looking at Eddie through the rearview mirror. Eddie flips him off.

Bill starts to fiddle with the radio, skipping every station playing Christmas music (so, just about every single one) with an increasingly aggressive edge as he continues. There’s almost a minute of carols being cut short and Bill jabbing at the dash until eventually Richie gently bats his hand away and plugs the aux cord into his phone. As Richie’s music-- alternative but dreamier than his usual brash driving music, begins to play, Bill shifts gears into drive.

Eddie catches Richie watching his reflection through the rearview mirror once again, seemingly checking to see if Eddie is actually angry with him. He shakes his head and settles into the seat. Eddie thinks of the bicycle gear that now sits on his desk, by a picture of the losers that Mike took over the previous summer. How he’s already held onto it in an attempt to ground himself after dealing with his mother, thinking of New York with Richie. He can’t be mad.

They weave through Derry suburbia, and Eddie gazes out the window to enjoy the twinkling lights and decorations that adorn people’s lawns. There’s a street of houses that always seem to compete with each other for the best and most over the top front yard. Flashing lights that are so bright it’s almost blinding and animatronics on the roof. Bill coasts slowly down the road, though he has this sort of faraway look in his eye rather than wonder.

After a bit, Eddie zones out, not really watching the route but just enjoying the festive displays or even pockets of darkness. However long Bill needs to drive, or wherever he needs to go, Eddie trusts him. (Though, Bev wasn’t wrong, Bill is not a great driver. He drove in the middle of two lanes for almost a minute before realizing). Eventually, Bill turns in somewhere and slows to a stop, keeping the engine on so they could listen to music, and more importantly, not freeze to death. Though it’s dark, Eddie looks out the window and can tell they are parked above the quarry, near the trail they take through the woods to dive off the cliff. It makes sense. This is one of the few places left the losers felt safe, that they can call home.

“Well Eds, Bill and I are going to be partaking in some illegal shenanigans right now, so you might want turn the other cheek,” Richie bends down to the space between his seat and the glove box, pulling out his backpack.

“Don’t call me Eds,” Eddie replies on instinct. “What do you mean?”

“Dude, did y-yy-you not tell him we’re h-hotboxing in your text?”

Richie shrugs, “It slipped my mind.”

“The fuck is hotboxing?”

Richie takes out a ziploc baggie of weed from backpack. “Talkin’ bout getting baked in a lil’ oven baby!” Eddie stares at him blankly, not any closer to understanding. Richie sighs dramatically, “You’re no fun. It’s when you smoke weed in an enclosed space, like a car. You’ll probably get a second hand high because all the smoke stays trapped.”

“Thanks for the warning beforehand, asshole. You know, I may not actually have asthma but I’d like to keep my brain cells, thanks,” Eddie scoffs, crossing his arms, “I mean, no offense but is it even smart to let Bill smoke right now? What if it’s a bad high? And, you know, he _drove us here_?”

Richie rolls his eyes, “_Relax_, I drive high all the time.”

“For some reason, that doesn’t comfort me.”

“Eddie, it’ll b-be okay. Richie and I have done this b-before. The st-strain he gives me relaxes me. H-helps the nerves,” Bill explains, “And w-we won’t drive till later. But I can take you ba-back home if you w-want.”

Eddie looks between them, watching as Richie continues to take out his lucky lighter and a pipe. He doesn’t really want to go back to his house, especially when he wants to be there for Bill. Plus, he’s sort of curious.

“No, I’ll be okay. Hanging out with Richie will guarantee I lose brain cells either way.”

Richie frowns at the dig but goes to work, putting the weed in the bowl of the pipe. The strong smell instantly hits Eddie’s nose and his face scrunches up in displeasure. Why the fuck anyone would want to put something that smells like skunk in their body is beyond Eddie. He doesn’t want to make them uncomfortable though, or prove Richie right, so he stays quiet and begins examining his fingernails.

“You wanna hit it first, or should I?” Richie asks, holding the pipe over the console.

After a moment’s hesitation, Bill takes it from him, as well as the white lighter. He throws a glance back at Eddie, an eyebrow raised in question. It says, _Are you sure you’re okay with this?_

“Don’t let me stop you.”

He watches as Bill puts the pipe up to his lips, sparking up the flame and holding it over the weed as he inhales, leaving it to swirl around his lungs for a second before exhaling. Bill coughs a bit, not yet at the unperturbed stoner status Richie has achieved. Richie hands Bill his water bottle and puts his feet up on the dash, moving them to the beat of the song playing.

Once his coughing diminishes, Bill takes another hit that goes down smoother this time. He passes it off to Richie, who inhales without lighting it again. Eddie furrows his brow in confusion and leans forward, seeing glowing embers in the bowl, surrounded by spots of black and green.

Eddie watches as they continue to smoke, Richie eventually opening his car window a bit and flicking the ashes out before filling the bowl again. It pains him that watching Richie smoke is actually kind of appealing. Really, it goes against every single one of his principles. Smoking is horrible for you and kills your lungs, and even though weed might not have as many chemicals as cigarettes, it smells horrible. Plus, he always rags on Richie for relying on drugs to relax or have fun. The fact that he thought Richie smoking (or, Richie, in general) was _attractive_? It was so out of character.

Yet there was something alluring about the way he held the pipe or exhaled the smoke, the lazy smile beginning to creep up on his face and how his head bobbed along to the music. How Richie catches his gaze in the rearview mirror, giving Eddie a look that he can’t quit place, but makes his heart flutter all the same. The way Richie maintains eye contact and tilts his head back just slightly, letting thick clouds spill from his lips, and how the sight twists something in Eddie’s lower stomach. Eddie must’ve been feeling that second hand high.

Bill slides down a bit in his seat as he hands the pipe back to Richie, finally relaxing and throwing his head back as the weed finishes taking effect. He’s smoked more than Richie at this point, making him more spacey and peaceful than the other boy. Richie inspects the bowl, moving the contents around before nodding to himself and taking another hit. Richie, being Richie, holds the smoke in for a while, checking to see if Eddie’s watching (he’s barely taken his eye off Richie the whole time, so he is), before attempting some complicated smoke trick. It doesn’t work.

Eddie slow claps, “Wow, real impressive dipshit.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Richie replies, going to pack another bowl.

It’s said flippantly, no real heat or challenge behind it. _Obviously_, Eddie isn’t going to smoke or do anything dumb, he’s just there to make sure they don’t die.

_Except…_

Something is making Eddie feel reckless tonight. Maybe it’s the second hand high making him stupid, or the rush of sneaking out. It could be was how suffocating his mother has been recently, constantly telling him not to disappoint her and to ‘stop hanging out with those miscreants’. Maybe, it’s the fact that he’s finally trying to accept who he is.

Mostly, it’s probably the fact that no matter what Richie does, it’ll always get a rise out of Eddie, and Eddie is surprisingly spiteful.

“Fine.”

Richie flicks his eyes back to the rearview mirror once again, struggling to get his lighter to spark for a moment before taking a pull. “Huh?”

“Fine. I’ll try. Give me the pipe,” Eddie repeats, sticking out his hand.

Bill’s eyebrows shoot up while Richie chokes on the smoke in his lungs, banging his fist against his chest before whipping around.

“_What?!_”

Eddie rolls his eyes, trying to stay collected even though his heart is hammering against his chest. “I thought you were fucking blind, idiot, not deaf. I wanna smoke.”

“Holy _fucking fuck!_” Richie exclaims before clasping his hands in prayer and looking up at the car ceiling, “God, I’m so sorry I said you didn’t exist after that shitty handjob I got under the bleachers at homecoming sophomore year. You made a miracle come true tonight.”

Bill slaps Richie upside the head, “I th-thought you ran away b-before anything happened.”

“Stop trying to ruin this moment for me, dickhead.”

Bill rolls his eyes and turns to face Eddie as well, “Are y-you sure you want to Eddie? No one’s fff-forcing you to.”

“I’ve already been in here for a while. Might as well go all the way,” Eddie shrugs.

“Don’t do it b-because ‘you might as well’,” Bill shakes his head, “Do it because you w-w-want to. Otherwise it’ll just suck.”

“I want to try, _seriously_.”

He’s nervous, but he wants to.

Richie seems satisfied with that, because he gives Eddie his pipe and lighter. Eddie knows the pipe isn’t actually heavy, but all of the things it symbolizes seems to weigh down his hands. It’s textbook teenage rebellion, and if he takes a hit, there’s no looking back. He’ll be defying his mother, and completely disregarding his own morals. But really, his whole world seemed to be shifting on its axis lately. Things he thought were facts were becoming muddled, and maybe had been this whole life. No longer is he the sick, scared boy he used to be. The losers may not always be in his life, at least not how they are now. Richie is his best friend but now Eddie may be feeling more for him, and he doesn’t know if that’s okay or there’s something wrong with him. Thinking about how everything’s changing yet some things are frustratingly the same has been fucking with his brain, and Eddie just wants a break.

He runs his thumb along the smooth glass, looking at how the yellows and pinks flow into each other. Eddie’s seen the losers smoke pretty often by now, last summer they’d pass around a joint Beverly rolled on the rocks of quarry just below them. But he really has no idea how to do it. Eddie looks up at them, Richie watching expectantly, his leg bouncing in excitement.

“Um. Could you… help me?”

Richie’s eyes widen slowly, realizing Eddie has no idea how to do any of this. “Shit, sorry.”

He goes to clamber over the console into the backseat, bumping his head on the ceiling and groaning.

“Careful, idiot. You don’t have that many brain cells to spare,” Eddie says, watching as Richie’s limbs go everywhere. Bill lets out a noise of protest when Richie’s sneakers almost smack him in the face, and he pushes him away.

Richie settles beside Eddie, so close that he can feel his breath fan against his neck.

“So, at the end of the pipe, there’s this hole,” Eddie watches as Richie shows him where it is, “And that’s where you inhale.”

He looks back up at Richie, slowly tuning out the instructions he’s giving in favor of staring at him. His hair is getting way too long and the curls are somehow bigger and messier, but Eddie sort of likes it. Unsurprisingly, Richie’s lips are dry because of the winter chill, so he licks his lips between every other sentence. A different Eddie would inform Richie that licking his lips will just make it worse, and that investing in some organic chapstick is much more effective. But he’s this Eddie, and this Eddie is regrettably transfixed.

“Understand?” Richie asks, putting in some more weed before holding out the lighter.

Eddie flushes, feeling stupid for zoning out. “Can you just… do it for me?”

Richie’s lips part slightly in surprise before smiling, “’Course. Just inhale when I tell you okay? And like I said, you don’t need to hold it in for too long.”

Eddie nods, as if he heard a word Richie said before. He steels himself and takes a deep breath, watching as Richie grabs his water bottle and place it between his thighs.

Thankfully, he has enough sense to hold it up to his lips without needing Richie to tell him to, so he doesn’t look like a complete idiot. He holds Richie’s gaze for a moment, the other boy’s brown eyes questioning, giving him one last opportunity to bail. Eddie shakes his head, letting out a deep breath. He’s doing this.

Richie lights the bowl, “Okay Eds, inhale now.”

As soon as he breathes the smoke in, Eddie’s throat and lungs are on fucking fire, ballooning up and ready to explode. He doesn’t need to worry about holding the smoke in too long because after a moment he’s violently coughing, smoke escaping as he sputters. Richie thrusts his water bottle in Eddie’s face, which under any other circumstance he would refuse because of the germs, but this is an emergency.

He downs a quarter of the bottle as Richie pats his back, “It’s okay, just try to breathe.”

“What the _fuck_ do you think I’m fucking trying to do?!” Eddie snaps, coming out strangled as he gasps for air.

In the front seat Bill looks scared. “Dude, d-do you think he’s okay? Like, is he gonna d-d-_die_?”

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up Bill, you’re stoned as shit and paranoid. Stop scaring him,” Richie said, turning his attention back to Eddie. “You actually did a lot better than I thought you would.”

“Really?”

Richie smiles, “Hell yeah. At least you tried to inhale. The first time Bill took a hit his lips barely touched the joint.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Well I would, but doing it in front of both of you seems a tad inappropriate,” Richie quips.

“Gross. But when has being inappropriate ever stopped you?”

“You know what, you’re right elf man. Never thought you’d be so interested in watching though,” Richie winks. He takes a sip of water, pinky up.

It’s just Richie being an idiot, but the remark pries its way into Eddie’s deepest insecurities. As if like Richie took out his heart and waved it around mockingly. Had he realized what Eddie had a month ago? Even if his little crush is just that, it doesn’t change that, for right now, Eddie feels something for him.

He shifts uncomfortably, coughing to dislodge any lingering smoke and _definitely _not to cut through the awkward air. Even though he’s pretty sure he almost died a couple minutes ago, Eddie wants to go again, to melt away the anxiety that’s making his throat close up.

“Can I try again?”

Richie looks surprised but agrees. “Take it slow this time.”

This time Richie just gives him a little nod as he lights the weed. Smoke fills Eddie’s lungs, still burning but slightly less harsh. He exhales in a rush, watching the smoke plume and disappear into the ceiling. His ribs rattle as he coughs just a bit. Richie’s stare is so intense that Eddie thinks he might crumble under it.

“You know, pretty soon you’ll catch up to me,” Richie jokes after a moment as Eddie takes another swig of water, “Can’t believe my little Eds is a stoner now.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, screwing the water bottle shut, “Yeah, never gonna happen.”

Since he’s never done it before, it doesn’t take long for the weed to take effect. It starts with his eyelids drooping, and then a light buzz making its way under his skin, his body humming loudly. His lips start to upturn into a large grin without his permission, and the strangeness of it all makes him giggle to himself softly. Eddie feels floaty, so light and free that he could levitate through the ceiling and into the stars. Maybe he’d see Santa and his sleigh.

“Shit. I’m getting coal in my stocking, aren’t I?”

Richie snorts. Apparently, he took the pipe back from Eddie at some point and is finishing up the bowl.

“Eddie, y-you do know Santa’s like, not real, r-right?” Bill asks.

“Yes, Bill, I do.”

“Man, that shit is so weird,” Richie says, “Like? I don’t get it. How in the fuck is some geriatric dude squeezing through your chimney into your house where your kids sleep not fucking terrifying?”

Bill hums thoughtfully. “Huh. Yeah, that _is_ w-weird.”

They continue talking about how strange Christmas is, though Eddie can barely follow the conversation. Richie’s too loud, both literally, and just in his presence. He’s hyperaware of Richie’s thigh pressed against his, or how his eyelashes fan across his cheeks as he slowly blinks. At one point, Richie fixes the beanie on Eddie’s head (_Richie’s beanie_), and he might’ve made another elf joke, but Eddie doesn’t care, too focused on the slight touch. He’s pretty sure he actually fucking _shivers_.

Richie looks at him, checking in silently if he’s okay with a raised brow and concerned eyes. Shit, his eyes. Brown and wide behind his big glasses. So familiar and pretty and…

“Your eyes…” Eddie whispers, “They’re…”

Richie inches closer. “Yeah?”

“They’re like, like… Dirt.”

Fuck, that’s not what he meant to say. His words linger in the car for a moment, no one saying a thing before Bill erupts with hysteric laughter. Richie looks shocked, but Bill’s cracking up is so infectious, and they join in.

“‘_Dirt_’?!”

“Like, _good_ dirt. Fuckin nutrient rich, fertilized soil, okay? Fuck off, Dick!”

“Hey,” Richie gasps, “Don’t call me a dick when you said my eyes look like dirt_.”_

Eddie shakes his head, “Dick as in short for Richard Dick, not dick, though you are one.”

Richie chuckles. “Ha. Dick.”

“Whoa. Do y-you ever think about how names are crazy?” Bill asks, voice slow and lilting. “People know me by m-my name and I just think of me as… _me_.”

“Well… yeah,” Eddie says, not sure what’s so ‘crazy’ about that.

“_Dude_,” Richie says, as if Bill just unlocked the secret of life.

“And, like. ‘W-w-what’s in a name’ and shit, y’know?” Bill says, and Eddie does not know. “Cause like, and s-sometimes I forget it, but my _real_ name is William, but I mean. Who thinks of me as _William_? No, I’m Bill. And. And where the _fuck_ does the ‘b’ come fff-from?”

Richie lets out a stupid laugh, “The ‘b’ stands for bomb ass dick!”

He makes a noise that’s a poor imitation of an air horn.

“Wait, Dick dick or dick?” Eddie asks.

Richie ponders this deeply philosophical question for a moment, face scrunched up.

“…_ Diiiiiick?”_

They break out into a fit of giggles again.

Once they’ve collected themselves, Richie asks Bill to “_turn that shit up_”. It takes a second for Bill to realize Richie is talking to him, too high and already lost in his thoughts. A moment later, the electronic music grows louder, the notes finding their way into Eddie’s veins, controlling his brain and making him nod along.

“Tame Impala. Fucking crazy when you’re zooted,” Richie says, as if Eddie was supposed to understand any of those words.

Somehow, Richie has shifted even closer to Eddie, eyes closed as his fingers play air piano, in the middle of quite the solo.

Richie must feel Eddie looking at him, because he opens an eye and lets out a soft laugh, grabbing at Eddie’s hand and swaying it with the music. It’s sloppy and off rhythm—Richie’s really jerking his arm around so much it might fall out it’s socket, but Eddie giggles all the same.

“Let’s start a fucking band guys,” Richie suggests, now tapping out the beat on Eddie’s knee. Eddie groans.

“I dunno, I’m down,” Bill chimes in.

Richie claps his hands together, “Hell yeah! And, I have the perfect name already.” The dramatic silence lasts for a bit too long, and Eddie can tell Richie did _not_ have a name already. “Sh……Shark Puppy.”

“What the fuck kinda name is Shark Puppy?”

“A good one.”

Eddie throws his hands up, “No it’s not! Is it a shark, or is a puppy?”

“I actually l-like it,” Bill says.

Of course he does. “You two are helpless. Can you even play any instruments?”

“No,” they both answer.

“So how could you even be in a band?” Eddie asks.

“I could sing.”

Eddie’s face twists up. “No, you can’t.”

“Aw, c’mon Eds,” Richie nudges him, “I know you love my voice!”

“I think I’d stick nails in my ears than listen to you sing.”

Richie’s eyes light up, “Is that so?”

“Oh, f-fucking great,” Bill sighs, “Now you’ve done it.”

Eddie isn’t sure what Bill means, but then Richie starts to yell at the top of his lungs along to the song that just started a moment ago.

“_All these people drinking lover’s spit,”_ Richie throws one arm around Eddie, singing right into his ear._ “They sit around and clean their face with it!”_

He cups Eddie’s face with his other hand and pulls him close, licking up a stripe on the side of his face.

“Ew! Rich!” Eddie screeches, trying to wriggle out of Richie’s grasp.

“_And listen to teeth to learn how to quit, tied to a night they never met,” _Richie continues, nonplussed.

Eddie tries to throw his hand over Richie’s mouth, but he twists away at the last moment and grows even louder. “_You know it’s tiiiiiiiiiime that weeeee grow old and do some shit,” _his voice goes soft for a moment, “_I like it all that way, I like it all that way…”_

It hits Eddie that there’s something familiar about the melody.

“Hey, I know this. I swear. Where have I heard this before?”

Richie takes a deep breath through his nose and shrugs, “I dunno. I think you’re just high. There’s no way you listen to them.”

“Yeah, probably,” Eddie agrees, though he’s so fucking sure he knows it. He just can’t remember why.

Richie spares Eddie a glance before leaning back and shutting his eyes. Eddie looks over at him, his lips still mouthing the lyrics to the song. He looks so lost in the feeling, like each word comes from his heart. So much so that for once, he doesn’t get a single lyric wrong.

The song seems to last forever, repetitive and droning in a way that’s beautiful yet saddening. A sense that something is missing, just out of grasp. In a slow blink Eddie’s inched ever so slightly closer, overwhelmed with the need to do _something_. His skin is buzzing where it brushes against Richie’s arm, and all he wants to do is reach his hand over and turn Richie’s face closer so he could kiss him; see if that would make him feel even lighter, even freer.

It’s a stronger pull than any of the other times, because he’s uninhibited by whether or not it’s right or wrong in this state. He just _wants_.

Really, he’s about to kiss him, fingers twitching, but Bill clicks off the stereo and interrupts his train of thought.

“Don’t tell Mike and Stan we did this.” 

There’s a severity and rawness to his voice that makes Eddie’s chest hurt. But he doesn’t get it. Mike smokes more than Bill does, and why the hell would Stan care? He’s off in Boston, and he’s never berated them for getting high before.

Quiet falls over the car, thick and unsettling. Richie and Eddie share a worried look.

“I j-just… I told Stan I’d be okay, without him this week. I p-p-promised I would,” Bill explains, hands gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles go white, even though they’re parked. “And I can’t… I can’t put that sh-shit on Mikey. He already has t-to think about his own parents. Fuck. It’s so f-fff-fucking _unfair_ and I’m crying like I’m not the one w-who got G-Georg-Georgie—”

Bill lets out a ragged breath, choking on his words and letting out a sob.

Eddie’s heart twists cruelly, understanding better now. Bill doesn’t want to worry them with his problems. With the grief and guilt he still grapples with. He doesn’t want them to know he couldn’t keep it together. Eddie wonders why it’s okay for him and Richie to see Bill like this, and not them, but that’s not what’s important.

He clears his throat, holding back his own tears. “It’s not your fault Bill. None of it.”

“But—”

“No. It wasn’t your fault,” Eddie says assuredly.

Richie leans forward and puts a hand on Bill’s shoulder. “And you can always come to us, but I don’t think they’d be mad at you, or think you’re burdensome for coming to them for help. I mean, you three are… Well you’re you three. Something special.”

Bill takes that in for a moment, nodding. He looks at them through the rearview. “I miss him.”

“Me too,” Eddie says and looks at Richie. “We all do.”

The silence that hangs over the car is more suffocating than the stench of smoke. Bill sniffles in his seat, finally letting his hands drop from the wheel.

“Let me drive us back,” Richie says after a few minutes, though it’s more of an order than a suggestion.

Bill gets out of the car and slides into the passenger seat, Richie doing the same to get in the drivers.

The drive is slow, partially because the snow has picked up, but mostly because Richie’s still high. They coast through the suburbs and shining lights once more, the tense air clashing with the joyous aesthetic outside. Bill’s gaze has been fixed out the window, but his gaze looks faraway, like he’s not really looking at anything. Richie pulls up to Eddie’s home, car sticking halfway out the driveway.

It feels wrong to leave, to end things off like this, with Bill feeling the way he does. He seems slightly better, now that he expressed what he was feeling, but his shoulders are hunched, eyes forlorn. Eddie understands, maybe not to the same extent, but he sympathizes with the grief. How his thoughts seem to stay stuck swimming in his head.

Right now, though, his head is blissfully quiet for once. Another reason why it feels weird to end this night in such an abrupt manner. With the way his skin is singing for more. With his lips still untouched, the moment gone but the want still remaining.

He feels that if he leaves the car, any bravery he mustered tonight—the rebellion, the not caring about what was ‘right’, would vanish. And yeah, everything’s cloudy and his judgement is impaired, but it felt nice to let go.

But reality awaits, and Eddie cannot fend it off.

He unbuckles his seatbelt, leaning forward to rest his hand on Bill’s arm. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”

Bill nods, “Yeah. I’ll be okay. Th-thank you, for tonight.”

“Yes, thank _you_,” Richie says, “Truly night for the history books! You just won me a bet with Bev.”

“H-how much does she owe you?”

“$10.”

“I’m only worth $10?”

“Ah, but the experience of witnessing such a glorious moment was priceless,” Richie grins, laughing to himself. “You’re a new man, Eddie _Kush_brak!”

Eddie and Bill groan.

“H-have you been waiting the whole f-fucking night to sss-say that?”

“Duh.”

It’s stupid, but it brings a laugh out of the three of them, lifting their spirits ever so slightly. Richie’s always been great at that.

Eddie goes to take off Richie’s beanie on his head, but Richie puts a hand up to stop him. “Keep it. Looks cute on you.”

Eddie grows red, keeping it on as he opens the car door, “Merry Christmas, idiots.”

\---

Though he almost plummets to his death trying to climb back into his room on a snow slick roof, Eddie sneaks back unscathed, and more importantly, undiscovered. With the weed in his system it’s easy to fall asleep, muscles relaxed and mind free of anxieties. There’s also the lingering smell of it on his hoodie, more familiar than gross now, because it reminds him of Richie. He may not be beside Eddie, but it still comforts him all the same.

Eddie holds onto his act of rebellion close to his chest the next morning with smug satisfaction. (Well, after taking a deep shower to scrub off any stench and scrutinizing his appearance, trying to determine if his eyes are still red or not). He grips onto it when she attempts to slyly convince him to stay home for college. Saying that maybe after he graduates, he can use her car to commute to school, a permission that presumes he’ll be staying in Maine. Or every time she tries to perfect his appearance, telling him to smile wider for the picture or else the daughters of her friends on social media won’t be interested in him.

He takes a deep breath and plasters a fake grin on his face, remembering the night before, laughing with Bill and Richie, inhaling smoke and feeling _good_. Being in Richie’s space and hands brushing and the freedom of it all.

But that’s also why he’ll probably never do it again, or at least anytime soon. Eddie lost any inhibition and almost kissed Richie, which is stupid on so many levels. Eddie knows his feelings toward Richie don’t truly mean anything. And, more importantly, it would’ve been embarrassing. He can’t lose control like that again, not till this passes. Eddie can’t unravel.

Still, it was fun for a night, and it keeps him going through Christmas day, and through part of the next. It only works for so long though, because his mother gets more grating and controlling as the days go on. Texting with Ben helps some, but then she’ll scold him for being on his phone too long. When Eddie tries to leave their endless marathon of soaps to visit Ben and Stan once they get back to Derry, she yells at him about the importance of family and tradition. That he’s ungrateful and disrespectful and breaking her heart.

The only light at the end of the tunnel is New Year’s Eve, which his mother already agreed to let him go to Mike’s house for. Technically, she thinks he’s spending the night at Stan’s, which in her eyes is a step up from spending it at the Denbrough’s, where the alcohol is free flowing. But like Eddie, Bill wants to get as far away from his house as possible, though for him it’s the absence of care rather than the onslaught of it. Or at least, what Eddie’s mother pretends is caring.

Mike’s home is small and a little far away, but it’s cozy and full of clutter and life. The farm he lives on is undisturbed by other houses and people, which means clearer skies, perfect for viewing the stars and the fireworks his distant neighbors love to set off every year. Plus, his grandpa is out of town.

New Year’s Eve is also the day before Eddie’s college applications are due. Currently, he’s having a stare off with the application portal, still hesitating to press submit. He’s sure he’ll get into some of them, but NYU? What if his grades aren’t good enough, or didn’t volunteer enough hours last year? Is the letter of recommendation his teacher wrote passionate or uninspired? What if his essay is shitty? Or maybe it was good, but he overedited it?

NYU is a longshot, and it’s even less likely that he and Richie will get in together.

Because Richie apparently has some superpower to sense when Eddie’s upset or thinking about him, there’s a sharp knocking on his windowpane. Eddie jumps at the noise, almost falling off his bed. The glass fogs up from Richie’s breath as he gestures for Eddie to let him in.

“Fuck,” Richie says as Eddie opens the window and then steps to the side, “Why wasn’t it open?”

“Because it’s freezing?” Eddie tosses him a blanket and closes the window firmly. “Why are you here? We’re not supposed to be at Mike’s for another…” Eddie checks the clunky watch on his wrist, “Two hours.”

Richie sets his things down and cocoons himself in the blanket. “We gotta grab some supplies first. _And_ I figured we should submit our college apps together, y’know, since you helped me with it and we’re trying to go to the same school… You haven’t submitted it yet, right?”

Eddie nods, somewhat embarrassed but also warmed that Richie knew he would wait to submit it because of his perfectionism and anxiety. Richie takes his laptop out of his bag and sticks his hands out from the fuzzy fleece to enter his password.

“‘42069’?”

“Mhm.”

“Wow, you definitely possess the level of sophistication and maturity colleges look for.”

“Thank you,” Richie turns to Eddie once his application portal is open. “Okay, are you ready?”

A surge of anxiety builds up in Eddie’s chest. “Wait, shouldn’t we double check everything?”

“I’m sure this would be your tenth check today alone,” Richie shakes his head, shifting his laptop away from Eddie’s grabbing hands. “And the little Angel Eddie on my shoulder already told me to do it before I came here, so I’m good. At some point we just gotta submit them.”

Eddie sighs, knowing Richie’s right.

“Just go for it,” Richie continues, “Do a running jump off the cliff’s edge, eyes closed…”

“Okay, you just made it worse.” 

Richie puts his hands up, “Okay, okay, let’s just submit them already, yeah?”

Eddie takes a deep breath, scrolling down the website. “Yeah, okay, let’s fucking do it.”

Richie smiles encouragingly, “On three. One…”

“Two…”

“Three!”

They hold their breath and hit submit together. Eddie screws his eyes shut for a moment before opening reading that the application went through. He looks over to Richie, staring down the imposing screen behind his large glasses. Eddie refreshes the page, already impatient and anxious about not knowing if he got in or not. He’ll probably die of anticipation before acceptance (or rejection) letters come out in April.

“And now we wait.”

Richie closes his laptop and shifts upright, “No, now you get ready so we can go get supplies for tonight. Make haste Lord Edward!”

Eddie gives him a flat look and crawls over him to go pick out some clothes. He’s sort of embarrassed to still be in his pajamas in the late afternoon, but it’s insanely cold out. Like, below freezing. With that in mind, he bundles up, changing in the bathroom because even though the losers have swum in their underwear dozens of times, getting dressed in front of Richie feels weird. Once he’s back in his room, he throws on the scarf Bev knitted for him and Richie’s beanie on top of it all. Richie stares but wisely doesn’t say anything, instead getting up and grabbing his own things.

Instead of making Richie crawl back down and risk falling off the roof, they sneak out the kitchen door while Eddie’s mother dozes in her recliner. He might have to face the wrath of not saying goodbye to her when he returns tomorrow, but for now he’s glad to get of out the house without having to interact with her.

The ride to the grocery store is slow and biting chill seeps into the car (has he mentioned that Derry is fucking cold right now?), but thankfully the snow is light, and the roads aren’t very busy yet. Richie hops out the car and almost slips on the thin layer of ice over the sidewalk, scrambling to hold onto his car so he doesn’t crack his head open on the concrete. Once he gains his bearings, Richie plays it off as if he meant to do that and slides across the ice to the shopping carts by the front entrance. 

In a force of habit, Eddie uses the hand sanitizer pump by the door, furiously rubbing in the strong smelling gel into his hands as Richie bumps the cart into a candy cane display that has yet to be taken down.

“Jesus, Richie, let me steer it,” Eddie bumps him out of the way, firmly gripping the cart with both hands. “What are we even here to get?”

“Well, really we’re here on a few missions. As you know, I am quite responsible, so I have been entrusted with the most important tasks for tonight’s extravaganza,” Richie says with flourish.

“I’m pretty sure I remember Mike saying “Richie, please don’t bring anything”, like, word for word.”

“Okay, but really what I’m getting is for the good of the people, for the _party—”_

“Doubtful,” Eddie interrupts.

Richie sighs, “Fine, _maybe_ some of it is selfish, but I swear, you guys are gonna love it. To the baking aisle!”

Eddie looks both ways before pushing the cart, walking with purpose as his eyes scan the aisle names.

“Slow down Eddie, fuck, you’re like a soccer mom who just found out there’s a sale on Capri-Sun,” Richie uses his long legs to catch up to him, “Wait, holy shit, can we get Capri-Sun? I wanna pretend I’m smoking with the straw.”

Eddie takes a sharp left into the baking aisle, “Why would you need to pretend? Did you smoke so much that you killed the few braincells you have left and forget you’re a stoner?”

“He gets off a good one!” Richie laughs, “Don’t act so innocent Eddie, or did _you_ forget that you too partook in the devil’s lettuce?”

“Shut up!” Eddie hisses, “One of my mom’s book club friends might be here right now! Besides, I’m never smoking or doing something stupid like that again.”

“Well, you’re bound to do something stupid, since you’re you.”

“Since I’m friends with _you_,” Eddie corrects him, crossing his arms.

“Fair.”

“So. Baking.”

“Yes!” Richie claps his hands together, scanning the shelves. “I’m going to try to convince Stan and Mike to make their chocolate chip cookies tomorrow morning. If I get the ingredients, they can’t use that as an excuse to deny me the divine chocolatey goodness I deserve.”

For once in his life, Richie is not exaggerating. The first time Stan and Mike’s famous chocolate chip cookies were made for Ben’s birthday in sophomore year, all of the losers became obsessed. Something about them were heavenly, though most things the pair made were. The ingredients perfectly measured and prepared by Stan, the love hand mixed in by Mike’s strong arms, crisp on the edges and chewy inside. The cookies could make a bad day bright or a good day even better. It became an expectation for holidays and birthdays and even most sleepovers, because they were so addicted.

Richie had it the worst, stealing handfuls of them whenever they came out and running away so no one else could eat them like a squirrel. (Though towards the end, Richie would share with Eddie, and they’d both run off, so Eddie can’t be too judgmental). Richie would incessantly bother Stan and Mike to make them, and once he took it too far by showing up before sunrise in Stan’s room to demand he made some. Some (most) people don’t take to Richie randomly showing up in their bedroom as well as Eddie does, and that was the last straw for Stan. No more cookies unless it’s a very special occasion.

“Yeah, because ambushing them worked so well last time,” Eddie reminds him, crossing his arms petulantly. That was a very dark day. Eddie cursed Richie out for ruining it for everyone for almost a whole hour. Bill cried.

Richie throws some ingredients into the cart. “But it _is_ a special occasion! What’s more special than the lack of an apocalyptic wasteland after another 365 days?”

“I’m just saying, I don’t think it will work. You’re wasting your money,” Eddie says, though Richie has never really been great at spending responsibly anyways. “Also, aren’t you and Stan like… Sort of weird still?”

Richie pauses, frowning. After a moment he rolls his shoulders back and shrugs. “Listen, Stanny and I are fine, he’s just on my ass about stupid shit like he always is. He’ll drop it soon enough.”

Eddie doesn’t really think Stan is the type to drop things. By the look on Richie’s face, he doesn’t seem to believe himself either.

Richie turns to the shelves again, scanning them behind his large glasses. He’s squinting, though Eddie doesn’t know if his eyesight has gotten worse or he’s just confused.

“I don’t really have, like, the recipe, so…” Richie grabs a handful of random stuff from the shelves and dumps it into the cart. Eddie shakes his head and puts some of it back, acting as if he knows better than Richie about what goes into their delicious cookies. 

“Okay, now you’re seriously acting like a mom, which would be sexy if it was yours, but,” Richie says, and Eddie flips him off, “It’s New Year’s Eve, we’re young! It’s okay to dick around a little Eddie.”

“I’ve already snuck out twice and committed sacrilege in the past week, how much more do you want me to dick it up?” Eddie huffs, the wording dawning on him a second later. “Wait, no, shit—”

Richie grins. “Too late. But I’ll let it slide if you get in the cart and let me push it around. You’re being too uptight.”

“What? Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because, I have like, thirty-five and counting increasingly awful responses for your flub coming in that you do _not _want to hear if you can help it. And, y’know… it would be _fun_?”

Eddie glares at him. He doesn’t really know why he’s not giving in, because in a way it sounds fun, and the type of juvenile fun that can’t end up too horribly. He’s done _drugs _at this point. (Oh god. He’s done _drugs. _Okay, the aisle of a supermarket is not the place to do this). But it’s also giving up control, though small, to Richie, after Eddie promised himself to keep it together. Eddie decides he’s overthinking it and arguing about it for two minutes is pointless.

“Hold it still while I get in, Trashmouth,” Eddie says, pushing the items in the cart out of the way.

Once he’s in there, knees tucked in, Richie sets off. He gets lost and stops abruptly, making the stuff in the cart slide towards Eddie. Richie turns around widely, almost bumping into another shopper and giving them a half-assed apology before turning into the snack aisle.

“Hold on, I thought Stan’s taking care of the snacks?”

“Yeah, but you know how he is. He’ll bring like, fucking apples and organic trail mix. New Year’s Resolutions don’t start ‘till tomorrow, amiright?” Richie jokes.

Eddie raises a bushy brow at him. “So. Let me make sure I understand your plan. First, you’re going to insult his taste and bring your own food. Then, you’re going to ambush him and ask him to make the very thing that almost ruined your friendship once before. While he’s upset with you?”

“…Yes.”

“I think you should put ‘stop being such a dipshit’ on your resolutions.”

“Okay. I’ll stop being a dipshit _tomorrow_,” Richie winks, throwing some hot cheetos into the cart. “We gotta find where they keep the lime juice.”

Eddie gags, “No. Nope. Absolutely not. I still have traumatic nightmares from homecoming.”

“Oh, is that what those are? I thought you were screaming ‘Richie’ for a different reason.”

Eddie’s jaw drops, his eyes widening so much they’re about to fall out of his head and onto the floor. Clean up on aisle six.

“Oh my god, your fucking face!” Richie laughs way too loudly, leaning forwards on the cart. “Jesus, Eddie, you don’t talk in your sleep anyways. I only hear your loud ass snoring.”

“Not fucking funny, asshole,” Eddie flips him off with both hands.

He tries to put the hot cheetos back on the shelf, but Richie pushes him forward before he can. “Now, now, Eddie, these are also for Beverly.” Richie reaches up to grab some other chips from the top shelf, his poorly fitting sweater riding up as he grabs it. Eddie pointedly looks away, until he hears Richie gasp and a bag is falling on Eddie’s head.

“What the fuck dude?” Eddie scowls.

Richie takes it off of Eddie’s head, “Sorry! But oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to ask. Did you hear about the love poem Bev got?”

“Love poem?” 

“Yes—wait. _You _didn’t give it to her, right?”

Eddie’s face scrunches up. At this point he’s pretty sure he doesn’t like girls, and he has no idea why him of all people would write a poem for her. “Um, no? I don’t like Beverly like that at all.”

“Oh, okay, good,” Richie nods. “Anyways, the other day she called me super angry, and was all like, “you’ve gone too far!!!” or whatever. And I asked her what I did, because honestly, I could’ve been a bunch of different shit that I couldn’t remember. But basically, she was trying to find the wool Mike got her so she could knit or whatever, and then this postcard with a poem written on it came falling out of it. And _I _didn’t write it, and I guess _you _didn’t—”

“Duh.”

“So… you know what that means, right?”

Eddie thinks for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. “Oh my god. Bill likes her again!”

Richie’s face twists up, “Dude, _what_? No? Obviously not?”

“Well I don’t know,” Eddie throw his hands up, “He likes to write, and I asked him about their relationship a few weeks ago, so maybe that made him realize something.”

Richie’s eyes narrow at him. “Why the fuck would you ask him about that?”

“No reason.”

“_Suuure_,” Richie stares at him some more, waiting to see if Eddie will break to no avail. “Anyways, I mean. No, that’s never gonna happen. What it _means_ is that Ben’s finally making moves!”

“Oh!” Eddie exclaims, finally catching on, “Oh my god, _yeah_! He’s always writing these poems about her in his notes, and I saw him put something in Beverly’s presents that day.”

Richie shakes his head, pushing the cart again. “You saw him put something in there and thought it was Bill. _Bill!_ Eddie, you are so oblivious sometimes.”

“Am not!”

Richie sends him a doubtful look as he leads them into the candy aisle. “Well I hope Beverly isn’t oblivious as you are and figures it out. I’m tired of them staring at each other and not doing shit about it!”

“Seriously,” Eddie groans in agreement, grabbing some sour candy by his head, “But I dunno if she will. She thought _you_ would write her a love poem.”

Richie places a hand over his chest, making an offended noise as Eddie laughs at the idea. “I could be a secret romantic!”

“_Suuure,” _Eddie echoes Richie’s skeptic tone, “What would your poem even be?”

Richie holds one arm out dramatically. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Hot as fuck.”

“It’s winter.”

“Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day? Short as fuck.”

“Fuck you.”

Richie grins, “See, my poetry really brings out intense emotions. Ben has competition.”

“If that’s your idea of romance I feel bad for whoever gets stuck with you,” Eddie quips, making a face at the red licorice Richie’s inspecting.

Richie snorts, putting the bag back. “Okay, I’ll take that from the guy who said my eyes looked like ‘dirt’.”

“That wasn’t—I wasn’t trying to be romantic then, dumbass.”

Richie raises his brows challengingly. _Okay, you try it then!_

Well, Eddie’s not really poetic, and there’s not way he’s going to actually express any type of emotion towards Richie. Time to take a tip out of the Trashmouth handbook: make a joke out of it.

“Alright, here’s a haiku,” Eddie says, starting to count each syllable with his fingers. “Your long legs like legumes—”

Richie laughs, “So beautiful, heart wrenching really—”

“Let me finish shithead,” Eddie reprimands him and continues. “I hate you most of the time; But sometimes I don’t.”

Richie snaps his fingers and Eddie pretends to humbly accept the praise. “My heart aches to know,” Richie adopts his French accent in an attempt to sound deep, counting off the syllables as well, “When you sometimes don’t, for it; Seems to be always sometimes for me.”

He falters at the end, meeting Eddie’s attentive gaze. Though it’s shrouded in a comical voice, there was something real in it, as far as Eddie could tell. An awkward silence hangs over them as the song playing in the background asks the shoppers what they’re doing for New Year’s Eve.

“That was, uh, more than seven syllables,” Eddie says at last.

A strained chuckle leaves Richie’s lips. “Duh, that was part of the joke!”

Strangely, he tosses a box of Junior Mints into the cart. Strange, because he often calls them an abomination to candy. _(“They’re pretty much just toothpaste filled chocolates, Eddie. Who the fuck actually likes them?”. _Which apparently, Mike does).

“I just need to get one more thing,” Richie says, leading them out of the candy aisle.

They weave their way through the store, Richie getting distracted by something in just about every aisle as he tries to find what he’s looking for. Eventually they stop in front of a fireworks display. At first, Eddie thinks he’s just gotten distracted again, but then Richie is seriously inspecting all the options.

“No, don’t tell me this is what you meant,” Eddie gawks.

Richie looks up from the box in his hands. “Um, yeah? We’re going to be in Mike’s fields, obviously I’m going to set off some fireworks.”

“We’re supposed to be just watching the other ones, not doing it ourselves. You could like, blow off your hand or set all the grass on fire or singe off your eyebrows, and it’ll scare all the animals—”

“I’m just getting sparklers and shit, not trying to be like Time’s Square,” Richie rolls his eyes. He pauses for a moment and smiles almost conspiratorially, leaning closer to Eddie. “Maybe we can do that next year.”

Eddie smiles in spite of himself too, the idea of wintertime in New York with Richie inviting and exciting. He’d want to come back to Derry to see the losers, of course, but who knows? Maybe in the future they’d want to stay one year. If they get in. The way Richie keeps talking about New York like they’ve already gotten brings up conflicting feelings in Eddie’s chest. On one hand he knows it’s foolish, on the other it’s nice to pretend like they have.

“Don’t you wanna set one off?” Richie asks, “I mean you’re not that different. Explosive out of nowhere, loud…”

“Flammable…”

Richie grabs some boxes from the display. There’s not much room left for Eddie in the cart. An older woman watches them with judgement in her eyes as she stops her cart near them.

“Hey,” Eddie taps Richie’s arm, beckoning him closer so he can whisper in his ear. “Isn’t that one of Bill’s neighbors?”

Richie moves away to scrutinize her for a moment. “Holy shit, yes! The crazy cat lady that lives down the street, right?”

Eddie nods, “She would come out on her porch every time we walked by and watched us. I always thought she was gonna hiss at us or something.”

Richie laughs, and then his eyes light up with an idea.

“Oh no.”

“Excuse me, ma’am?” Richie asks the older lady, who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. Eddie feels the same right now. “You wanna race?”

He grips the cart and moves his hands like he’s revving the engine of a motorcycle, complete with the noises. With a bewildered stare and a scoff, she starts to wheel her cart away from them.

“Hey, that’s cheating!” Richie calls out, “It’s okay though, we’re still gonna leave her brittle bones in the dust.”

Eddie shakes his head nervously. “Wait, don’t—”

But Richie’s already set off running on the shiny floor. Eddie’s hands quickly reach to hold the sides of the cart, his so tight the metal is digging into his palms. The items are shaking and flying everywhere in the cart, a couple of them hitting Eddie in the stomach.

“Richie, stop the fucking cart!”

He ignores Eddie’s plea again, narrowly avoiding a stand of full of fruit. Eddie’s heart speeds at their near miss, but then, likely due to absolute delirium, he starts to enjoy the recklessness. Richie pushes off the floor with one foot and puts the other on the bottom of the cart, gliding past the old woman with his tongue out. Eddie laughs, tossing a bag of marshmallows at Richie in a half assed attempt of admonishment. They bounce off his chest and back into the cart. 

As they near the other end of the store, Richie slows them down, inches away from one of the freezers. They catch each other’s gaze and start laughing breathlessly.

“Wow, she didn’t even try,” Richie says, throwing his hands up. He twists to look back at her, “At least give us some competition next time!”

Eddie puts his head in his hands, embarrassed but still laughing at Richie’s absurdity. He peaks between his fingers to see Richie grinning.

Behind Eddie, someone clears their throat, and Richie stops laughing. Eddie twists around to see one of the employees crossing their arms.

“I’ll have to ask you two boys to pay for your items and leave.”

Eddie sheepishly gets out of the cart, cheeks hot with shame as they follow the worker to the register. He starts putting everything on the conveyor belt, finally realizing how much Richie picked out. Even though Eddie’s been encouraging Richie to save up money for college, he hopes Richie’s paying for all this shit. Eddie only has ten dollars and coupon for the pharmacy in his wallet.

As their things get rung up Richie heads to the ice chest near the exit, filled different frozen treats like popsicles and ice cream sandwiches. The cashier watches him with wary disdain.

“What are you doing Rich?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing? You want something?”

“You do realize it’s freezing outside in Maine, right?” Eddie starts loading the bags back into their cart, “Actually, it’s _below freezing_.”

Richie pulls out a mini carton of ice cream, waving it for Eddie to see. “They have cookie doooough,” he sing-songs.

Hm. He _does_ like cookie dough.

Eddie sighs in defeat, waving Richie over to pay for everything, including the ice cream. The worker watches them through the window as they throw everything in the backseat, only looking away once they’ve returned the cart.

They wrap themselves in the collection of blankets in Richie’s car, trying to keep warm and get the ice cream warm too. Unfortunately, they have to share the shitty plastic spoon attached to the lid, which is not only inconvenient but not quite strong enough to break through something so solid. (It’s also not very sanitary, but Eddie doesn’t mind as much when it comes to Richie). In attempt to make it melt some, Richie heats the carton between his hands. Then Eddie stabs the top layer repeatedly, so aggressively that Richie looks at him with concerned eyes.

Eventually it’s good enough, and they hover over the sweet treat, fighting over the spoon. Both of them keep trying to steal all the cookie dough chunks for themselves. Eddie elbows Richie’s side as he tries to take the last one when it’s not his turn. It results in a bit of a mess of spilled ice cream, some smeared on the tip of Richie’s nose as he jolts back.

“Ah, fuck Eds, c’mon,” Richie wipes it off of himself, annoyed only for a moment before he’s chuckling. “Some things never change I guess.”

Eddie smiles, remembering all the ice cream they used to share, fighting over the last bar in the Denbrough’s garage or grabbing a cone during Canal Day.

He ends up losing rock paper scissors and has to brace the cold again to throw away the carton when they’re finished. After dashing outside to the nearest trash can, Eddie dives back into the car, teeth chattering as he brings the blankets close around his body.

Richie reaches out for Eddie’s wrist to look at his watch. “Well, we killed about an hour. I’m sure Mike won’t mind-- to Grandpa Hanlon’s we go!”

Icy roads make for an excruciatingly slow drive, and Eddie begins to regret the ice cream, just a bit, because it’s almost impossible for him to get somewhat warm now. Richie has both hands on the wheel, trying to keep control of a car that feels like it’s about to break apart in millions of pieces. He’s humming, as he often does, a melody that Eddie recognizes but has no idea why.

Finally pulling onto the dirt road to Mike’s home, they see Bill’s car already (haphazardly) parked in front of the house. At least Richie and Eddie aren’t the first people here, which makes Eddie feel a little better about showing up early. They grab their bags, both the groceries and their backpacks with filled with sleepover essentials, and step out onto the grassy sludge, leaving footprints until they step on the porch. Eddie knocks on the door as Richie break off some of the icicles formed on the low roof, inspecting it and giving it a tentative lick. Repulsed, Eddie slaps it out of his hand, sending it shattering on the wood. There’s no response and their bags are getting heavy, so Richie opens the front door anyways.

“You put away the snacks while I go look for them,” Richie says, setting down his things carelessly.

Eddie nods, glad to not be holding anything and in the warmth of Mike’s home, but not eager to go poking around when they haven’t been officially let in. Mike’s home feels familiar, but in truth it isn’t. The losers rarely meet at Mike’s because it’s much farther away from everyone else, and because his grandpa can be sort of strict and overwhelmed by the intense, often unruly energy of his grandson’s best friends. While his home is comforting, it’s more so due to how much it _feels_ like Mike, warm and cluttered and full of love. Richie obviously is not the type to hold the same concerns. Eddie heads off to the kitchen while Richie makes his way down the hall to Mike’s bedroom.

As Eddie’s trying to reach some bowls on the top shelf to put all the snacks in, he hears Richie’s voice from around the corner.

“Happy New Yea—ooooh! Oh shit—”

“_Richie?!_” That sounds like Stan, with his signature shrill yell. There’s a thud on the floor.

“Dude, wh-what the fuck?”

“Oh my god, my bad, seriously!” Richie says, his voice all high.

Eddie frowns, brows furrowing as he steps down from the chair he was using to boost his height. What the fuck is going on in there?

“Sh-shit, hand me my f-f-fucking uh…” Bill trails off. “Yes, thanks Mikey.”

A voice that sounds like Mike speaks next. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, uh, Eds and I—well, we thought we could come over early, and I guess that was sort of stupid, though like, maybe you should learn how to lock your door like most people do when they’re gonna—Ow!” There’s another thud. “Did you just throw your fucking shoe at me?!”

“Yes, I did,” Stan says, as (presumably) Bill and Mike laugh. “Get out, or I’ll start throwing more,” he continues, voice low.

Stanley Uris can be very scary when he wants to.

Eddie peeks around the corner of the kitchen, though he can’t see inside Mike’s bedroom from that angle, only a sliver of Richie. Obviously, the interruption to whatever the three were doing was unwanted, and Eddie doesn’t want to make it any worse, so he hangs back while trying to gain a semblance of understanding about the situation.

Richie chuckles nervously, “Sure! Understood buckaroo,” (_Buckaroo?_) “Eds and I will fuck off—I mean get out of here and come back later. Maybe… Or not.”

“No, don’t run off. You and I are due for a talk,” Stan says.

Shit. Eddie does not envy Richie one bit.

“Okay. Yeah, I, uhhhh… sorry again. I’ll just be. Waiting out here for you I guess.”

There a pause, and the creaking sound of Richie’s weight shifting on the old floorboards.

“Richie?”

“What’s up Mike-aroni?”

Mike sighs. “Could you close the door?”

“Oh! Yes! Totally!”

Once the door closes, Eddie debates checking on Richie or not, but he figures it would be better to do that after his “talk” with Stan. The idea fills him with nerves. Stan and Richie wouldn’t… They’ll always be friends, and even though he doesn’t believe Richie’s downplayed explanation of the situation, especially after all that, he doesn’t think whatever is going on is _that_ bad that it could possibly jeopardize their friendship.

Likely, it’s another case of Richie running away from his problems, as he tends to do. Though, truthfully, Eddie thinks Richie’s getting better about that. Opening up to him about college in his bedroom, the bicycle gear, the whispers of their future in the late nights and early mornings. Richie still often hides behind a joke or a quick dismissal, but lately he’s been letting Eddie see parts of his heart he’s never seen before.

Abandoning the snacks for now, Eddie meanders around the living room, picking up every random knick-knack and candle and book and looking through them. He supposes he _is_ a bit of a snoop, but from whatever the fuck all of that was, he can tell he made the better decision by not wandering the halls of the Hanlon home.

Eddie stands in front of some old cabinetry, clearly handmade but in a charming way. There are ribbons from fairs, mostly second and third place, though there is one first. That’s where Mike’s grandpa is this weekend, with one of the farmhands that they’ve become quite close to. Beside the ribbons are some nice figurines, cows and chickens and sheep, whimsical and wholesome. On the shelf below, there’s a framed picture. Mike is there with his usual radiant smile, but very young, holding onto the hands of whom Eddie presumes is Mike’s parents. Eddie’s glad that the losers can be here with him now, while his grandpa is out of town, so that he’s not alone.

There’s the telltale creaking of the floorboards, and Eddie turns around to see Bill and Mike walk out into the living room. The pair look flushed, or rather, _Bill _looks flushed, his face rosy pink all over. His auburn hair is mussed up and half falling in his face, which Mike fixes for him gently. Mike seems slightly more put together, though the sleeves of red flannel he’s wearing (which looks a lot like the one Bill’s been wearing for years), are rolled up to different heights.

Again, Eddie’s not too sure _what_ Richie (and himself, he supposes) interrupted. Maybe the three were dancing or something, since he knew Mike and Bill enjoyed it from homecoming. Eddie knows the embarrassment of having someone (Richie in his case as well) walk in on you dancing when you thought you were alone.

“Oh, Eddie!” Mike’s eyes widen as he sees him, “Hey. I didn’t know you were actually… out here the whole time.”

“I tried to tell Richie not to come here so early, but, well…”

Bill nods, sticking his hands into the pockets of the dark blue cardigan he’s wearing over a plain white shirt. Not exactly his usual style, but it looks nice on him all the same. “Yeah.”

“Really though, I’m sorry we interrupted whatever the hell you guys were doing,” Eddie apologizes.

Mike and Bill share a confused look, having some weird telepathic conversation. “Um… No worries Eddie,” Mike says, “We weren’t really doing anything anyways.”

“Y-yet,” Bill adds. Mike rolls his eyes and smacks his chest, though it’s teasing and light.

“Anyways, you can make it up to us by helping us set everything up,” Mike suggests. “We were going to do it later, but since you’re here now...”

Eddie agrees, pointing out the groceries (and fireworks) that they bought before coming here in the kitchen as well. Mike helps him set up the snacks as Bill pops outside into the snow to grab the other decorations from his car. He doesn’t bother to put on a winter coat, even though the snowfall has picked up since Eddie and Richie got here. Just watching Bill wrap his cardigan closer to his body as the wind blows a bunch of snow towards him makes Eddie feel like he needs to take a warm bath.

When Bill returns Mike explains all the things they need to do, which is quite a bit of stuff. There’s balloons to be blown up, a banner to be hung, wrapping paper that needs to be taped to the wall so they can have a ‘photobooth’ to take pictures against later with Mike’s polaroid, plus the fire needs to get started, and—

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie groans, “Please tell me this list ends soon.”

Bill snorts as Mike sighs. “I know, I just… Want it to be a perfect night. We only have so many more left where we’re all together y’know? And tonight just feels like… we’re all standing at the edge of this precipice. Something bigger than ourselves waiting at the bottom. Does that make sense?”

Eddie nods, though truthfully it only sort of does. Which is how Eddie feels about a good chunk of the abstract philosophical things Mike says, about _feeling_ and shit. Not too dissimilar to how it felt talking to Bill about relationships and love. Eddie finds it hard to articulate how he feels, though most of the time he’s uninterested in even trying. But sometimes they say something that resonates so deeply with Eddie that it feels as if they punched him in the chest.

Since he’s the only one who knows how to do it properly, Mike builds up the fire as Bill and Eddie start inflating the balloons. At first Eddie is overzealous and puts too much air in them, making them burst with a loud _pop!_ Once he gets the hang of it though, he’s tying off balloons much faster than Bill.

“C’mon Bill, I know you have better lungs than that,” Eddie jokes.

Bill narrows his eyes at him, and Eddie realizes he shouldn’t be referencing their late-night hot boxing excursion in front of Mike. However, the other boy doesn’t comment on it, only sending them a curious glance before throwing another log on.

Once he’s sure Mike isn’t paying attention, Eddie whispers, “Are you… feeling better?”

Of course, Eddie has texted some with Bill between Christmas Eve and now, but it’s harder to tell how Bill’s doing when he’s not right in front of him.

“Yeah,” Bill ties off another balloon, holding onto it with just enough pressure that Eddie’s a little worried it’ll pop too. “I talked to Mike about it. W-well, sort of, not the s-smoking thing, or even G-Georgie, wh-which I know I should, but I just… Told him I needed to be w-w-with him for a few hours the day after Christmas.”

“He didn’t ask why?”

Bill shakes his head, “I think he s-sort of already knew though.” He takes a deep breath. “Anyways, th-that helped, and now Stan’s back, and I’m not in that s-s-suffocating house, so.”

Eddie nods, understanding how he feels. He hesitates before giving Bill’s knee a little squeeze in reassurance. Bill gives him a small smile and they get back to work.

Fifteen minutes go by as they decorate, and Stan and Richie are still talking in Mike’s room. They’re not talking loud enough for Eddie to hear what’s going on, though he supposes in a way that’s a good thing, that they aren’t heated enough to raise their voices. Still, the wondering is making Eddie nervous, the edge of the wrapping paper coming out a wobbly mess as he cuts it.

After they’ve done that, Bill and Eddie pick up the banner, sparkly letters hanging on a string reading ‘_Happy New Year!_’. They share a quizzical look. Like the rest of the losers, Bill is taller than Eddie, but not by much. They’re not going to be able to reach high enough to hang it up where Mike told them to, at least not without wobbling on chairs.

A delighted laugh startles both of them, turning around to see Mike grinning. “I guess we should wait for Richie and Stan to be done to get that hung up, yeah?”

Bill flips him off lightheartedly, and the three of them head into the kitchen to graze the snacks. From the window over the sink, Eddie can see that the sun almost set, the sky painted with muted blues and purples.

“They’ve b-been in there for a while,” Bill frowns, hopping up on the counter. “Do y-you think they’ve killed each other?”

Eddie gulps.

Mike moves next to Bill, resting his arm on Bill’s thigh. “Nah, I don’t think so. There’s just a lot they need to talk about, and you know how stubborn they can be with each other.”

“Tell me about it,” Eddie hums in agreement.

Bill laughs, almost choking on the chips he’s eating. “You are the _last_ person who sh-should be j-judging others for being st-stubborn.”

“What the fuck, I’m not stubborn.”

Bill raises is his eyebrows and gestures at Eddie emphatically. He looks at Mike, who’s trying to hide his laughter behind his hand. “S-see! Right there. Right fucking there.”

The pair start arguing over whether or not Eddie is stubborn (he is _not)_, their voices loud and talking over each other to the point where they don’t notice Stan and Richie walking into the kitchen until Mike stands up straight.

“Hey, don’t stop the party for us,” Richie says, removing his arm from around Stan and reaching over Eddie to grab some cheetos. His lips twist in disgust at the small bowl of Junior Mints. He hands them over to Mike, as if he’s unable to look at them any longer. “Who the fuck brought these?”

Despite Richie’s effort to act like nothing happened, an awkward quiet hangs over the five boys for a moment. Or, quiet except for Richie’s obnoxious chewing. They stare at each other, unsure if they should address the elephant in the room.

“Hey Eddie,” Stan breaks the silence, crossing the kitchen floor to give him a hug.

“Welcome back Stan,” Eddie hugs Stan back, “How was the trip?”

Stan smiles. “Good, really great. Well, not all of it, you know how my dad can be. But Boston is great. I’ll talk about it more when Ben and Beverly get here, though. I’m sure Bill and Mike are sick of hearing me talk about it.”

They shake their heads, though there’s something sort of sad and worrisome in Mike’s eyes. Eddie doesn’t like that it’s there.

Mike pats Bill’s leg again, looking at Stan. “You two wanna help me finish putting things up in the other room?”

Stan nods and Bill jumps down off the counter, the three leaving Eddie and Richie in the kitchen by themselves.

“So…” Eddie says, twisting away from Richie so there’s some space between them. “Is everything okay?”

Richie leans against the counter running a hand through the curly mess of hair atop his head. “Yeah, all’s good with Staniel and Ricardo now.”

Eddie inspects Richie, trying to see if he’s lying or not, but it seems like he’s telling the truth. Plus, Eddie could see the small shift in how the two interacted with each other when they came into the kitchen, even if for a brief moment.

“All’s good as in you’re still annoying the shit out of him while he tries not to snap?” Eddie jokes.

“Oh of course,” Richie grins, “We’re getting our own sitcom soon, I think.”

Eddie laughs. “How come we don’t get one? You’re always trying to get a rise out of me too.”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, fixing his glasses. “It’s a little different with you, though.”

He looks at Eddie like he has something on his mind, and it’s only then that Eddie notices the shiny redness in his eyes behind the lens of his glasses. He wants to ask if he was crying, but the doorbell rings and cuts through their bubble. Richie heads out into the living room, and Eddie follows.

“Happy New Year’s Eve!” Ben and Bev cheer as Mike opens the door for them. Bill and Stan return the greeting from their place on the couch. A gust of wind brings a flurry of snow inside the living room.

Mike steps out of the way so they can come in. “Hey y’all!”

The two shuffle in, Bev letting out a content sigh at the warmth coming from the fire that’s burning bright. “Sorry if we’re early,” Ben apologizes, “Though I guess Richie and Eddie are already here.”

Eddie checks his watch. “Actually, you’re like, twenty minutes late.”

“Well, we figured… Nevermind,” Bev pulls off her gloves. “We brought the drinks!”

Ben lifts the cardboard box in his hands, “Bev brought them actually—”

“But he refused to let me just carry it myself. So, _we _brought them. Though, technically, I stole most of it from my Aunt.”

Mike takes the box from Ben’s arms and carries it to kitchen. Ben helps Bev shrug out of her coat, the two laughing when it gets stuck halfway down her arm.

A bony elbow not so subtly knocks into Eddie’s own. “Do you think they…”

Eddie watches as Ben takes in the dress Beverly is wearing, green with bell shaped sleeves.

“You look pretty, Beverly.”

Bev’s pale freckled skin turns a soft shade of pink. “Thanks, Ben. Not looking too bad yourself.”

“No,” Eddie goes on his tip toes to whisper in Richie’s ear, “they’re still doing their weird flirting thing.”

Richie nods sagely. “I do believe your deduction is correct, dear partner—”

Eddie makes a face at the voice Richie’s adopted, a confused blend of British and Old-Timey New Yorker. “What the hell is that?”

“My detective guy. I’m still workshopping him. You like?”

“If you can’t solve a mystery that easy, I think it’s time for him to retire.”

Richie frowns. “Whatever. Anyways, there still time for them to get in a New Year’s kiss,” he waggles his brows suggestively.

Oh. Right. Eddie had forgotten that was a thing, probably because it never really pertained to him. He wasn’t going to kiss some girl at midnight, because the only girl he knew was Beverly, and he didn’t want to kiss her. And he never wanted to go out and kiss any other girl either, like last year when Bill brought them to some house party he’d gotten invited to by a girl in his class that liked him. Richie had kept talking excitedly about trying to score as many kisses as he could, which got under Eddie’s skin. Shouldn’t a kiss _mean_ something? He didn’t see what the big deal was. Of course, looking back on it, Eddie didn’t understand because he doesn’t like girls. (And maybe, Richie’s goals annoyed Eddie because he secretly wanted to kiss Richie at midnight). Though it didn’t matter much in the end, since Richie ended up drinking way too much too quickly and essentially passed out in the girl’s basement. Even Bill didn’t get his own kiss, instead tripping as he danced to impress her and slamming into the floor. Eddie and Stan took care of his bloody nose as their peers counted down, though both of them had been hiding throughout the whole party anyways, so they didn’t care.

For all of Richie’s loud and incessant proclamations about kissing last year, Eddie’s a little shocked he hadn’t mentioned it until now. Maybe because they weren’t going out to a party, and the only person Richie would consider kissing, even as a joke, was already enamored with someone else.

Richie has already left Eddie’s side, moving on to go bother Beverly while attempting to juggle some of the balloons. Eddie sits on the arm of the couch beside Stan, catching up with everyone about their holiday. Neither Eddie or Bill have much to say about it, having unpleasant experiences they’d rather not bring up when they’re trying to have fun. Thankfully Mike had a more pleasant Christmas, though he mentions that he missed everyone, and worried throughout the day about how everyone else’s celebration had been going.

When it comes time for Ben and Stan to talk about their trips, Bev takes Richie’s hand and drags him to them, sitting down on the carpet. Eddie already had some idea about how Ben’s holiday went, since he’d been texting him as much as he could, and was sure Bev knew as well. Ben mentioned that they’d been talking as well, video chatting even, and they had all that time before they got to Mike’s house. Apparently she wanted to hear it again, or had just gotten sick of listening to Richie.

“I’m glad I’m home now,” Ben says once he’s done recounting his visit home, “With my friends.”

Mike claps Ben on the shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze.

“We’re glad you’re here too,” Beverly smiles.

Richie undercuts the nice moment by letting out a wolf whistle, and Eddie hurls the throw pillow he’s holding in his direction.

Stan speaks of Boston with an excited voice, eyes wistful as he recounts the charming atmosphere. Not as loud and busy as New York City, he says, but much more interesting than Derry. He talks about a nice coffeeshop he might try to work in if he gets accepted to Boston University, speaking highly of their blend. Stan also mentions the places Bill might like, the small park not far from Emerson, perfect to sketch or write in. Or this quaint secondhand bookstore, that he knows Mike will love too, plus the little touches of history throughout the city. Eddie had no idea Mike wanted to apply there as well, though honestly, he has no idea about what Mike wants to do after high school.

His tales of New York are much more interesting to Eddie, though Stan obviously didn’t enjoy it much. Everything and everyone is _so much_ according to Stan. It’s crowded and full of personality, though there are pockets of peace, tiny bakeries and record stores to duck into. Maybe it’s not appealing to Stan, but the little snippets of New York City he hears from him make Eddie excited at the prospect of living there. He catches Richie’s eye, recognizing the same look in them as well.

They spend the next couple hours fucking around as they usually do, talking and laughing and eating (Stan did end up bringing ‘healthy bullshit’). Mike plays photographer for their photobooth, lots of extra film by his side as they pose like absolute idiots-- jumping on each other’s backs (Eddie, but he’s small so it’s justified) and into arms (Richie and Bill), awkward prom poses (everyone, though Stan and Richie’s are the best), and stupid faces. Every time Bev and Ben are next to each other Richie and Eddie very obviously giggle, and eventually Beverly pinches their arms in annoyance.

“Cut it out dumbasses.”

When everyone’s started to move on, Richie grabs the camera and tells Eddie to model for him, mostly resulting in a bunch of pictures looking like Eddie wants to murder him. But there’s one, when Richie says something that’s actually funny, and Eddie laughs, eyes squeezing shut and mouth thrown open in a smile. After it develops, Richie looks at it for a moment before putting it in his pocket.

Ten minutes before midnight the seven friends bundle up again, grabbing the sparklers they bought at the store (and a bottle of vodka Bev stole from her aunt) and head out into the cold. Thankfully the snow has calmed down, but it’s still absolutely freezing. Eddie brings the scarf that Bev knit for him halfway up his face.

They walk to a barn, one that Mike says they mostly just use for hay and storage now because it’s old and too far out in the property. According to him, it’s a good spot for viewing all the fireworks everyone sets off. They stop about twenty feet away from it so Richie can hand out sparklers for everyone to light. He pulls out another box, one that definitely holds something more intense.

“I thought you said that you’re just getting sparklers,” Eddie says, putting his hands on his hips.

“And shit. I said, ‘sparklers and shit’,” Richie corrects, “These are just, like, mini fireworks anyways.”

Bill looks at the box, “L-looks fun to me.”

Beverly nods along excitedly.

“I don’t know if we should…” Eddie cautions.

“Well, what does Mike think?” Ben asks.

Mike shrugs, “I’m down, as long as we’re not right by any of the animals, which we aren’t right now.”

“A minute till midnight,” Stan announces, looking up from his phone.

“Shit, okay, shots,” Bev says twisting open the cap, “Eddie, you can go first.”

He’s touched that she considered that he wouldn’t want to share the bottle with the others, his aversion to germs still lingering from his mother’s manipulation. Though, he’s not sure he really wants to drink, but Eddie figures it’s a simple shot, something he’s done before, and maybe it will warm him up in the freezing cold.

Eddie pulls down his scarf and takes a swig, pleasantly surprised that it doesn’t taste like rubbing alcohol, and there’s a lack of burning irritation as it goes down his throat.

“Wow, holy shit Eddie!” Richie exclaims, applauding him.

Eddie shrugs, playing it cool.

Bev looks impressed as she takes the bottle from him and downs some of it herself. She makes a confused face, then sniffs it. “Fuck,” she groans, “It’s one of the one’s I filled back up with water.”

The snow crunches underneath Richie’s body as he falls to the ground and moans painfully into it. He lifts his head up, some snow sticking to the side of his now red face. “Mike, please tell me you have some inside?”

“My pops locked it up before he left.”

“Perfect! Beverly can pick locks!”

Bev rolls her eyes, “I’m not stealing from Mike’s grandpa.”

“Hold on,” Ben says, eyes wide. “Beverly can _what_?”

“Twenty seconds!” Stan interrupts.

Bill takes out a lighter from his pocket. “Okay l-let’s j-j-just stick with the sparklers.”

With the combination of Bev, Richie, and Bill’s lighters, they light them in record time. At first Eddie’s a bit nervous as it starts to burn, the fizzling noise and the first pop of sparks, the voice of his mother in his ear telling him how stupidly dangerous it is. But as bright flashes fly from the stick, Eddie finds himself entranced by how they glimmer magically against the black sky.

“Ten…” Stan starts, grabbing the attention of everybody.

The losers meet each other’s eyes as they countdown, awash in the yellow glow of the sparklers. Their voices grow louder as they get closer and closer to midnight.

“Five… four…three…two… _one_!” They start cheering, screaming at the top of their lungs, “Happy New Year!”

Richie dances around, waving his sparkler and leaving trails of exploding light behind him. “_HAPPY FUCKING NEW YEAR LOSERS!_”

A loud bang echoes in the night, and a second later an eruption of color spreads across the previously empty sky, circles of red overlapping each other until they vanish.

“Alright, there’s four of these babies,” Richie picks up the other fireworks once his sparkler dies out. “Who wants to set them off?”

Bill and Bev eagerly step forward, walking a little farther off to place them on the ground. Ben helps Bev with hers, and Mike with Bill’s.

Richie raises a questioning brow towards Eddie and Stan. “There’s one more.”

Stan puts his hands in his pockets. “I’m fine just watching you guys be idiots. Also, this is my favorite sweater.”

“Your disapproval is noted but not taken into consideration.”

“I only disapprove of some of you setting them off,” Stan says. “I trust Mike and Ben.”

Richie laughs. “Wow, not Bill?”

“_Definitely _not Bill.”

“Well Eds, I do believe that leaves you,” Richie turns to him, “Unless you want me to hold one in each hand.”

Eddie gawks at him. “You’re… planning on holding the fireworks… in your hands?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Stan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I actually can’t stand you.”

“Why Stan, I thought you said you greatly valued my friendship just a few hours ago.”

“Get him out of my sight,” Stan says to Eddie flatly, though there’s a joking twinkle in his eye.

Eddie regards the firework, sucking in his bottom lips as he contemplates if he should set it off or not. His mother’s voice returns, in the back of his head. If a sparkler was bad to her, this was definitely worse.

But honestly, who gives a shit what she thinks? Eddie’s never going to be the son she wants him to be. He’s stubborn, swears like a sailor, sick of doing everything she wants him to do. At this point he’s snuck out and gone to parties, broken in and gotten kicked out of places too. For all his worrying and fretting, he ends up having a good time when he finally lets himself give into his whims, friends by his side and courage in his heart.

“Fuck it,” Eddie grabs the other stick from Richie’s hand.

Richie grins, and the two shuffle out to where the others are waiting. He lends Eddie an extra lighter, showing him where the fuse is.

“Okay losers club,” Bill shouts, bending down. “R-ready?

On the count of three they light the fireworks in succession, running away as soon as the flame meets the fuse. Richie almost trips, but Eddie helps him up, dragging him by the hand.

Eddie’s breath is coming out hard, visible in the winter chill, but he barely notices it before focusing on the beautiful glitter of stars exploding from the fireworks, soaring in the air. They come out in bursts, golden and swirling in different patterns. He feels each vibrant crack and clap deep in his chest.

As they disappear into clouds of smoke, Richie tugs on his sleeve. “C’mon, let’s give the lovebirds some privacy.”

Honestly, Eddie’s not sure Ben and Beverly are going to kiss, but at least Richie is finally giving them some alone time. He wants to question why Richie didn’t pull Bill, Mike, and Stan away either, but they’re already almost to the barn.

The two of them climb up the ladder to the small loft area, and Eddie’s scared the rickety thing is going to break while both of them ascend. He sneezes, overwhelmed by the musty smell hanging over the barn.

In a join effort, they push out the large wooden panels that act as a sort of window cover, though there is no actual glass pane, just a cut out portion of the side of the barn. Due to lack of use, and the cold (plus maybe the fact that him and Richie aren’t very strong) it takes some straining to swing them open.

Leaning out the window they have a perfect view of the sky, watching as one of the neighbors set off another firework, this one blue and much larger than the other ones. It may be somewhat childish, but Eddie loves the way they shimmer in the sky. How some of them seem to leave a twisting trail of sparkling light, while others spread out like dozens of little comets burning. He loves the whistle as it soars up, and booming noise as it bursts that rings in his ears.

Eddie looks over to Richie only to catch his gaze, the other boy already staring at him. Richie mumbles something before he turns his eyes back to the sky, but he can’t hear it over the whizzing fireworks.

He does the same, crossing his arms over the edge of the window. After a couple more explode, Eddie dares to look at Richie again. There’s the piercing whistle of another firework being set off, and then Richie’s swathed in colors, red, then blue, then purple. His brown eyes are big and focused, the bright lights trapped inside his pupils. Another loud bang, and it must be a big one because it illuminates Richie like a spotlight, and his lips part in amazement.

Once again, Eddie feels that pull in his chest, the one that makes him want to shift into Richie’s space and kiss him. It wouldn’t be hard, just a few inches between them. Now he understands why people are so obsessed with a New Year’s kiss. Not the way Richie had talked so frivolously about it previously, but the idea that the kiss is supposed to mean you’ll be together the rest of the year. A small moment of affirmation— _I want to be with you_.

He’s unable to suppress the desire, to compartmentalize it into a little box to be dealt with later. The roaring sound of the fireworks start to feel muffled, bursting into his heart and telling him to do it.

But he’s not high, like last time, and the shot he took wasn’t vodka. He’s not exhausted from schoolwork or plagued by visions of horror movies in his dreams. Eddie’s got a clear mind, but he still wants to. It doesn’t make sense. He already decided he doesn’t like Richie, not truly. Why isn’t his brain cooperating with him?

Richie turns his head to glance at Eddie, eyebrows quirking as he takes in whatever expression is on Eddie’s face. He hopes it’s not too obvious. For a second, Eddie swears he saw Richie’s gaze dip to his lips.

What was it that Mike had said earlier? That tonight feels like something bigger than them is waiting on the other side? 

“Hey, y’all still up there?” Mike hollers from below them.

Eddie tries to speak but his voice comes out to small. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah!”

“We’re heading back inside before we freeze to death,” Mike says.

Hypothermia. Of course. That’s why his brain wasn’t working the way it should. It was making him all confused.

Eddie breathes out a sigh of relief as him and Richie descend the ladder. He walks with Bill on the way back, not wanting to get confused and weird again before they make it back to the house.

Inside, Mike builds up the fire again as they all change out of their cold and wet clothes and into warm pajamas. As they roll out sleeping bags in the living room, Ben makes a mug of hot cocoa for everyone, the fancy kind over the stove.

Eddie cocoons himself in several blankets, resting on the armchair right by the fire. The hot mug of cocoa feels like it’s burning his palms, but he holds it anyways, letting the steam waft into his face.

“You good Eddie?” Mike asks quietly.

“Mhm,” Eddie nods, “Just cold.”

“I’ll go try to find some more blankets.”

Eddie tries to focus on anything but himself, not wanting to think until his brain warms up again. As he watches Ben and Beverly, he can’t tell if anything happened between them or not. They’re still sneaking those tender glances with one another over their cups, chatting away in their own world. The two of them have been _this _close to being together for so long that Eddie wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, especially not now with his thinking impaired.

He takes a long sip of his drink, feeling his body start to return to its normal temperature again.

Stan and Richie settle onto the couch, Bill draping himself over the two boys and placing his head in Stan’s lap. They start playing a game of cards, using Bill’s stomach as a table. It’s nice to see Richie and Stan back to their usual selves again, not clouded by the strange tension that had built over the past few months. Richie says something that makes Stan genuinely laugh, the latter hiding his bright grin behind the cards he’s holding.

Then, Richie slams down one of his cards onto Bill’s stomach.

“Fuck,” Bill hisses.

“My bad,” Richie says, though he doesn’t sound very sorry.

Eddie smiles as he goes to take another drink, an amused laugh tumbling out from him and echoing in the ceramic mug. It catches the attention of Richie, who meets his gaze from across the room and beams at the fact that he made Eddie laugh. He sends him a wink, like it’s some inside joke, and returns his attention to the card game.

And, well, shit. Eddie isn’t even shivering anymore, and yet, that feeling that’s becoming unfortunately familiar tugs on his heart.

He wants to tuck himself into Richie’s side on the couch and kiss him.

The pull turns into a sinking sensation in his stomach. Eddie can’t blame it on his brain being fogged up with external factors. He can’t blame it on Richie being awash in the light of sunrise or fireworks. Richie’s not even wearing anything very appealing, just a plain sweatshirt with the hoodie over his head, a few curls sticking out.

Nothing about this moment is special. It’s inconsequential, but that’s what makes Eddie realize he’s been lying to himself for the past month or two. What he’s been feeling for Richie is not just some temporary bullshit. The pull has been persistent, maybe even before Eddie realized it was there at all. Eddie thought that maybe he was infatuated with some fantasy idea of Richie. In love with the dream of them running off to New York City and taking on the world together. But in the light of the glowing embers, Eddie recognizes that it’s more than that.

He’s not in love with a fantasy of Richie but the real thing. The stupid fucking jokes and the knowing gazes and secretly thoughtful words and gestures. All the imperfections that make him the way he is. How he’s messy and hogs the bed and the way he’s always touching Eddie. The way Richie seems to know what Eddie needs, what makes him happy or makes him laugh, how Richie’s face lights up when draws out a smile from him. How they can just exist together, no expectations, a deep sense of understanding between them.

And now Eddie’s ruined it.

“Do I have whipped cream on my face or something?” Richie’s voice snaps Eddie back into the present.

Eddie blinks absently. “What?”

“You’re looking at me all weird.”

“Oh,” Eddie says. He feels like he’s going to throw up. “I, uh…”

He doesn’t even finish his sentence, getting up in a daze and needing to be anywhere but in the same room as Richie. Eddie barrels past Mike and shuts himself in his bedroom, stomach lurching and heart beating wildly. He grips onto the cluttered desk and trying to take in a few shaking breaths.

There’s a soft knock on the other side of the door. “Eddie? It’s Mike. Are you alright?”

Shit. Shutting Mike out of his own room was sort of a dick move. Eddie opens the door. His voice sounds shaky and foreign. “Sorry, I just needed a moment.”

Mike clicks the door shut and locks it behind him. “Whoa, Eddie why don’t you sit down?”

He slowly lowers himself onto Mike’s bed, his legs slightly unstable. His hands fist the sheets, and that fucking awful feeling in the pit of his stomach won’t go away.

“Are you having a panic attack?”

Eddie nods just barely.

“Should I get Richie?”

“No!” Eddie shouts, and then his hand flies to his lips. “Sorry, I just… I can’t right now, okay?”

His voice trembles at the end, and then he feels tears welling up at the corner of his eyes, spilling over onto his freckled cheeks. All the emotions he’s been bottling up the past few months overflowing in an embarrassing outburst.

Mike inches closer, running his hand up and down Eddie’s back as he lets out a sob. He doesn’t try to ask Eddie what’s wrong again, just trying to soothe him as he continues to cry.

A deep fear nestles into Eddie’s bones, knowing that he can never go back to the way it was before his revelation, no matter how much he wants to. Eddie plummeted over the edge of the precipice, and now he’s unraveling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. okay oof! i forgot everything i was going to say here LMAO feel free to talk to me on my tumblr @ mikeshanlon and thank you so much for reading!
> 
> edit: okay remembered a couple of the things i wanted to say way later LMAO. firstly, the song richie sings in the car is lover's spit by broken social scene (do with that what you will.....). strongly reccommend you listen too bc i think you'll really understand the Vibes and why eddie was like tender h*rny whike bill was having a breakdown at the same time. secondly, i hope y'all have a good rest of your holidays!!!


	5. january

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi... it's me again..... firstly i wanna say thank you for the like INSANE outpouring of love last chapter i truly teared up multiple times.... thank y'all for reading and being so nice and understanding like wow.... and thanks to maggie for editing this and sprinting with me, and to claudia and mo for dealing with me and helping me out with some stuff! love y'all legends sm<3
> 
> warnings: the usual with eddie anxiety/internalized homophobia stuff. and a very very brief mention of blood and like probably weed LMAO.

Sleep doesn’t come easily to Eddie that night, too on edge, too deluged by the emotions that come with discovering he’s been delusional about the way he feels for months now. The safeguard of pretending his affection towards Richie was ‘nothing’ was, admittedly, not very strong to begin with, but it granted him just enough emotional space to avoid dealing with it. Now, Eddie has to face it.

Once more he thinks of the quarry, this time it makes its way into the dreams he has when he manages to fall asleep. Toes dipped into the water—too cold to jump in, but the lure of the refreshing feeling of it washing over his skin enough for him to let just his feet get numb from the chill. A ripple on the surface, skin brushing the water’s edge, but nothing too deep.

And then he’s up on the clearing above the quarry, that familiar swoop in his stomach as he peers over the edge. It’s the same way he felt when Richie hovered over him so many nights ago after they escaped from the party. How he felt just hours before, watching fireworks with him. He keeps trying to get his body to move, walk back home or something, but he can’t. His body just looms over the steep drop. Suddenly, there’s a push at his back and he’s stumbling over the edge. Body crashing into the water, unusually choppy, and he can’t swim up. There are voices calling out to him, but he _can’t fucking swim_, his ankle is caught on something and he can’t get himself free, running out of air—

The mattress shifts beside him and Eddie snaps awake. His eyes are heavy as they blink and take in the surroundings, dry and raw from crying so much earlier. (_Waterlogged_, he thinks for a moment).

Mike is pushing the blankets aside, getting up as quietly as possible, but Eddie’s fitful rest was too fragile for even a little movement. It feels strange, to wake up next to someone and not have their arm slung around his waist, soft breathing at his neck.

(It feels strange to wake up next to someone and it’s not Richie).

Eddie feels bad about sleeping in Mike’s bed, but Mike insisted after Eddie calmed down enough last night. He said that Eddie needs to be comfortable and safe, that he’d stay with him so that Eddie knows he has someone there if he needs. After checking that he was okay to be alone for a moment, Mike slipped out of his room to grab some water for Eddie and tell the others he wasn’t feeling well.

He wonders if part of the reason Mike wanted him to stay in his room was because he knew Eddie didn’t want to see Richie right now. Couldn’t. Mike was weirdly perceptive like that.

Unlike Richie, Mike was fairly peaceful while he slept, no blanket hogging or lying half on top of Eddie. A little tossing and turning as he got comfortable, a slight mumble when Eddie accidentally kicked him after another bad dream, but nothing major. (Maybe Eddie kicking him reflects badly on him, but really, it’s because Mike’s bed is small, and even just by himself Mike is probably a bit too big for it).

Eddie lets out a large yawn, capturing Mike’s attention.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Mike says, picking out a sweater from his drawers. “I gotta get up early to do my work.”

“It’s all good. I wasn’t sleeping very well anyways.”

Mike hums sympathetically, starting to get changed out of his pajamas. Eddie picks up his phone, checking the time. 5:30 A.M. Shit, and Richie gets upset if he wakes him up at 7:00. More terrible than the early hour are the fuckton of text messages and voicemails from his mom, no doubt yelling at him for leaving without saying goodbye. He doesn’t want to deal with that right now—too much on his plate already, so Eddie turns off his phone with a groan.

Instead, he looks around Mike’s room, now aware enough to take in the little changes since he’s last been in here. Per usual, it’s cluttered—borderline too messy, but Mike would call it ‘organized chaos’. Piles of books on just about every surface, spoons on his desk that were used to stir honey into tea, plants on the windowsill in mismatching pots, including the ones Eddie gave him for the holidays. The focal point is the memento wall Mike has on the wall his bed is against. There are ticket stubs from the Aladdin, photobooth pictures from the arcade, sketches Eddie recognizes as Bill’s (mostly of Mike and Stan), a sticker that Eddie’s also seen on Richie’s laptop, so he assumes it’s some weed related thing. But more importantly, it’s filled with his favorite polaroid pictures, goofy faces and serene moments. He recognizes a lot of them—a few from the homecoming game, shots of the Canal Day festival from the past summer lit up at night, everyone’s Halloween costumes (one of Richie and Eddie curled up watching one of the horror movies, which makes Eddie’s cheeks grow red), and overexposed smiles at the quarry.

“Well, if you’re not going back to bed, do you want to come along with me to do some chores around the farm?”

No, Eddie isn’t compelled to go out in the cold to look at sheep or get pecked at by the Hanlon’s evil chickens. But Mike says in that tone of his, like it’s not _really_ a question. Yet, it’s not a threatening order either. Just, _‘I care about you and we need to talk about last night, please don’t fight me on this’_. The way Mike always is, gentle but stern. Eddie would rather be locked in a room with the chickens than talk about his panic attack last night, but he doesn’t really have a choice.

“Sure,” Eddie nods, climbing out of bed.

Mike smiles. “Good. Hey, I’ll even let you pick some of the eggs.”

"Woo.”

Eddie gets dressed, a slow process because he’s so tired and disoriented. His other clothes are still out by the fireplace where they left them to dry, so Mike lets him borrow a sweater and some of his old overalls. Despite the fact they’re from when Mike was younger and not fully grown, the overalls are still pretty big on Eddie. He has to roll up the cuffs a few times just so they end at his ankles.

In the living room, everyone is still asleep except for Stan. Unsurprising, since he’s someone who follows a routine even if he isn’t required to do anything that day. For some reason, that includes waking up before the sun rises, even when they stayed up so late.

Maybe he stuck to his schedule so that he could join Mike on his morning routine— Eddie’s heard Mike talk about how Stan enjoys watching the animals on the farm, the peaceful quiet of the fields in the dawn. Eddie’s not sure if he’d want Stan to join them or not. On one hand, he could use Stan to distract Mike from bringing up last night at all. On the other, Stan is even less likely to let Eddie drop the whole thing, and even less likely to be gentle going about it. Their combined perceptiveness is not very appealing to Eddie at the moment.

Though that doesn’t look too likely right now anyways. Instead of puttering around and making coffee or reading like he often does, Stan’s still lying on the couch, just scrolling through his phone. Probably because Bill is curled into Stan’s side, face smushed into his chest and hand resting atop his heart, the auburn hair atop Bill’s head already a mess. If Stan moves, Bill will wake up, and Richie isn’t the only one of them grappling with sleeping issues.

Stan looks up from his phone and smiles at them, moving his hand away from where it was rubbing circles on Bill’s back. _Morning_, he mouths, and Eddie awkwardly waves.

Mike steps over Beverly and Ben on the floor, sleeping just inches apart (Eddie still can’t tell if something’s happened between them at midnight), to get to Stan. He crouches, a hand on Stan’s arm as he whispers something in his ear, the other boy’s eyes flicking to Eddie in concern. Eddie’s pretty sure Mike’s keeping it as vague as possible, but it’s obvious they’re discussing how he freaked out last night. Something like “_Eddie and I are going out to do chores this morning. Just Eddie and I.”_ Which will prompt Stan, the perpetual worrier, to ask what’s wrong.

He feels weird watching them talk, both because he knows he’s the subject of their conversation, and because the way they do it is strangely intimate, hands brushing and silent looks making up half of the interaction. Eddie feels like he’s intruding.

So he looks away, eyes falling on Richie as they often do. He’s asleep on the chair Eddie was sitting on before he darted off, blankets haphazardly thrown over him. Richie must’ve nodded off after everyone else, since his glasses are still on his face, slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose. Hopefully he wasn’t waiting up—Mike said Richie was concerned when he told everyone that Eddie wasn’t feeling well and tried to come back into the room, but Mike convinced him not to. 

Cautiously as possible, Eddie steps forward so he can take the glasses off and set them down on the nearest table so they don’t break. Richie has a backup pair, but they’re his old coke bottle glasses from middle school, so the prescription is completely out of date. Eddie’s fingers (shaking, just slightly), gently remove the large frames from Richie’s face, careful not to wake him up. He shifts a bit, mumbling moodily as he usually does when Eddie tries to get him up.

Guilt freezes him up, not wanting to wake Richie after he was worrying about him. Though, even more, he felt stupid for even getting close to him after his realization. It’s not anything different than how they normally act, but it feels like everything is tainted now, colored by his feelings for Richie. Even if his intentions aren’t romantic, it still feels like a breach of their friendship. Crossing a line without Richie even knowing.

Or maybe that’s how it always was, these small actions that came so naturally— Eddie subconsciously wanting to get closer to Richie because he cared for him. The idea makes Eddie’s face grow hot with shame. Then again, the losers were always showing affection with a reassuring touch, close not necessarily because they loved each other the way that he (maybe) did for Richie, but like family. How Bill had said. Plus, out of the two of them, Richie’s the one who’s much more likely to throw an arm around Eddie or grab his hand. And that doesn’t mean anything.

Shit. He’s doing it again. Breaking apart his emotions to grasp at anything just to convince himself he doesn’t like Richie. Just because Richie doesn’t mean it that way doesn’t mean Eddie didn’t either, knowingly or not.

A hand grabs his shoulder, and Eddie makes a startled noise, turning to see Mike. Thankfully, he wasn’t too loud and doesn’t wake the others.

“Sorry Eddie,” Mike sheepishly retracts his hand, “I forgot how jumpy you are.”

“I’m not jumpy.”

Mike looks at him for a moment and shakes his head. “Let’s go.”

Predictably, it’s unbearably cold when they step outside. Last night the snow mercifully lightened up while they were ringing in the New Year out in the field, but now it’s falling steadily, the breeze sending it right in their faces. At least Richie’s beanie keeps Eddie nice and warm.

“So,” Mike says, bumping shoulders with him as they walk, “How are you feeling?”

Honestly, Eddie’s not sure. He’s not sobbing, and his chest doesn’t feel tight. So, in a way, he’s definitely better than he was earlier, barely keeping it together in Mike’s room. But he doesn’t really know how long that’s going to last. If he felt a surge of shame just taking off Richie’s glasses, how is he going to react when Richie’s awake?

Aside from his anxiety, he feels… a lot, really. Stupid, for being so adamantly in denial for so long. Afraid, for what this could mean for his relationship with Richie. Unsure, about what to do next, if anything. Even with the swirl of negative emotions there’s something else forming deep in his soul. _Of course_, it seems to say, _how could he have thought he felt any differently?_ A strange sense of comfort in finally understanding how he feels.

But again, he doesn’t know how long that’s going to last. Right now it’s just a fleeting sensation, the urge to let out a bright, manic laugh teeming with nerves. Part of him wants to take out his heart, straining under the overwhelming combination of emotions it’s carrying. The other part, smaller, but with a voice starting to grow just as loud, wants to let his heart consume him.

All of that, which he still can’t make much sense of, is far too much to try to explain to Mike. Especially not without explaining everything, which he has no desire to do. 

So, he settles on a very underwhelming, “I’m okay.”

One of Mike’s eyebrows raises. _Bullshit_.

They walk without saying anything, just the snow crunching underneath their feet. For a moment, Eddie thinks Mike decided to be kind and spare him from saying anything else about it, but as he opens the door to the barn where the sheep are kept, he breaks the silence.

"What happened last night?”

“I dunno,” Eddie shrugs, “It was just some weird fluke. I’m sorry for making you deal with it.”

Mike shakes his head, closing the door behind them. “Don’t apologize, Eddie. You didn’t make me ‘deal’ with anything. I wanted to help.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, thank you.”

“Of course,” Mike smiles at him. He hesitates in front of the buckets of feed in the corner and turns to face Eddie. “But I don’t think it was a fluke.”

Eddie crosses his hands across his chest defensively.

Mike sighs. “Listen, I’m not trying to upset you. But I’m worried. Last couple months I’ve noticed you’ve been doing that thing where you fold in on yourself sometimes, y’know? Get all quiet or push us away. I figured you talked to Richie about it or something, since sometimes you’d be just fine. I know you… don’t really like to talk about all this stuff, so I didn’t pry.”

The fact that Mike noticed all these things catches Eddie off guard. Has he been that obvious?

“But… _Shit_, Eddie,” Mike frowns, sitting on one of the buckets. “Last night… I’ve never seen you like that before.”

“I can deal with it on my own, okay?” Eddie snaps. He instantly regrets it. Mike doesn’t deserve that, especially not after how he took care of him last night. But Eddie’s emotions are a mess, and he’s scared. Everything he’s feeling comes out in the form of aggression in order to keep himself protected. “Sorry, Mike, I didn’t—"

Mike puts a hand up to stop him. _It’s fine_, the expression on his face says. He starts to feed the sheep, their hungry bleating too loud and disruptive to ignore anymore. Once he’s finished filling up their troughs, he pets one on the head, thinking to himself.

Eddie leans against one of the posts. “I’m not totally on my own. I have you guys.”

“Always,” Mike smiles reassuringly, scratching one of the sheep behind its ear. “But just _being_ with us isn’t always enough. Sometimes you have to talk about things.”

_Jesus fuck_, does he have to be so persistent?

“I just… don’t wanna talk about it, okay?”

“And I get that. But you can’t bottle everything up inside. Believe me, I used to think that I was better off on my own. That it was easier to be an outsider, to not rely on anyone or talk about my problems because people wouldn’t understand. Because it’s scary.” Mike pauses, resting his hand on the wooden pen. He looks up at Eddie after a moment of contemplation. “But sometimes scary is good. Opening up can be terrifying, but it’s better to go through things with a friend. I learned that with you, and all of the losers. Remember that time we first met?”

Eddie nods. “Of course. First day of freshman year, when you stopped being homeschooled. Bowers and his goons were fucking with you afterschool on your walk back.”

“And then y’all came and stopped them,” Mike says with fond nostalgia, a small smile beginning to grow. “And I realized that some people _do _care. That sometimes we’re stronger with others. I mean, at first I _definitely_ thought y’all were crazy—as most people do when they see a short kid with a fanny pack hurling rocks and screaming with the rage of a hundred warriors.”

They both burst out laughing, a wide grin on Eddie’s face as he playfully shoves Mike’s shoulder.

“Hey, I got rid of that thing a few months after that.”

“Yeah, because Richie told you to. Because he was trying to help you.”

Shit.

Eddie scoffs. “That’s different though.”

“Does it matter?” Mike asks. “Like Bill always says, losers stick together. We’re here to help out, even if it’s just to get shit off your chest. But you can’t keep holding it all in, Eddie. That’s just gonna make it worse.”

He meets Mike’s stare, full of care and concern. Something pleading in his voice.

“You can trust me.”

And Eddie knows he can, the way he can trust all the losers, because they’re his family. With Mike, his kind eyes and gentle prodding. He knows they’ve all shared secrets with one another, deep and dark and vulnerable. Tales of cruel parents, their insecurities, greatest fears, the ghosts that cling onto them, or, maybe, the ghosts they cling on to.

Yet sharing his mother’s abuse feels different than sharing the surfacing of his emotions, the deeply repressed and previously unaddressed facets of himself—who he loves, and if he’s allowed to. It’s different, because it’s not something that’s happening _to_ him, it’s coming from within himself.

With his mother, he’s trapped, but there’s also little ways he can fight back against her manipulation. Hang on to the little control he has over the situation. There’s the idea that maybe one day he can escape her clutches, likely not all of the invisible bruises and scars she’s left on his soul, but her constant suffocation and power. That maybe one day, it’ll be easier, that he won’t feel so delicate.

But. _Shit_.

Eddie can’t control it, that he doesn’t like girls, that he likes Richie. (Though not for lack of trying or at least pretending to). But maybe even worse, now that part of him has accepted it—that he can’t change it, that he really does like Richie, Eddie might not… _want_ to control it. Maybe he wants to give into his feelings.

He feels stuck in an unusual flux state of belonging and self-loathing.

Hypothetically, if he pushes all the complexities and emotions aside, Eddie thinks he could trust Mike with this. He’s probably the most nonjudgmental and compassionate person Eddie knows. Well, Ben too, but he’s not sure if Ben would be able to keep the secret, too excited and letting it slip out accidentally. He’s so obvious about how much he likes Beverly. It’s unlikely he would be subtle about the fact that Eddie likes Richie if he knew, obvious elbow nudging and knowing looks. And Eddie can only imagine how Ben’s hopeless romantic heart would react—inviting him to weekly sessions where they spend hours writing sonnets and yearning to pop music or some shit. Eddie respects Ben’s romanticism, but he has very little sense of his own emotions and doesn’t want to commiserate over their feelings for their best friends.

On the other hand, Eddie doesn’t think Mike would expect something out of him—he’d listen, and probably give advice, but wouldn’t push him too far. Mike’s probably the most experienced with romance and girls, other than Bill of course. Eddie remembers the hickey he got at the homecoming dance, or the times during the summer, when they would chat over coffee and he’d have to leave to ‘meet someone’. But he also remembers how understanding and sweet he was when Beverly told them she was bi, so Eddie’s, like, ninety-five percent sure he’d be accepting. He still can’t bring himself to say it. What if for some reason Mike hates him for saying it, for being the way he is?

Even if he really truly wanted to tell Mike the truth, how the fuck would Eddie even put it? “_Yeah, I flipped the fuck out last night because I finally realized I’m gay and in love with my best friend. Okay, let’s go feed your demonic chickens now!”_ It’s too much. And is that even the truth? Logically, Eddie knows that he doesn’t like girls, and he likes Richie (and probably had a crush on Bill, once), so he likes guys. Which is… pretty gay. Still, ‘gay’ feels so strong, so definite, at least right now. When he was first trying to figure out his feelings, he felt some sort of connection to the word, but still, as his brain keeps reminding him of his feelings, calling himself gay comes along with the vitriolic voice of his mother.

_(“I hope you know what I expect of you, Eddie”)._

And… does Eddie _love_ Richie? He thought it last night, but he was so frantic and shocked. Yet, he knows what he feels goes deeper than a crush. That their bond, the way they know each other, look out for one another, is stronger than ‘like’. So. Maybe he does.

Both words feel right in their own way, but too big, too real, for Eddie to handle right now.

Mike’s not going to let him avoid talking about anything though. He’s given Eddie a moment to himself, brushing the sheep’s fluffy fur, but Eddie knows that’s not him letting the matter drop. Just his way of letting Eddie figure things out.

Too afraid to truly approach the subject of his sexuality, Eddie decides for a semi-truth.

“What you said last night, about us only having so many of them left, of something bigger than us waiting on the other side… It hit me,” Eddie says, capturing Mike’s attention. He walks over to rest against the post closest to the one Eddie’s leaning on. “I don’t know where I’m gonna end up, I just know I don’t want to be here. But would I even _make_ it?”

Mike nods for him to continue, and for some reason the encouragement makes Eddie veer a little too close to the truth.

“I just don’t know who I am, or what I want.”

“Most of us don’t,” Mike says after a moment, “But we still have time to figure things out. To try. For what it’s worth, I think you’re going to do just fine, Eddie.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

“But I don’t really get what that has to do with Richie.”

Eddie gulps. Why must Mike Hanlon _know_ things? Eddie plays dumb, mostly because he is half of the time.

“Huh?”

Mike side eyes him discerningly. “You freaked out when I asked if you wanted Richie there last night. Why can’t he know about this?”

Eddie shoves his hands in his pockets, fixing his stare on one of the sheep. It’s surprisingly intimidating, like it knows all of his secrets, and he loses the stare off.

“We applied to NYU together,” Eddie admits.

“Hey, that’s amazing Eddie!” Mike pats him on the shoulder with enthusiasm. “I can totally see y’all there.”

“Yeah…”

Mike tilts his head questioningly. “But you’re not too sure about it anymore?”

“No! I mean. Maybe. Like, it’s my dream school, right?” Eddie explains, trying to articulate himself without spiraling or revealing too much. “But what if we don’t get in? Or we do, but something goes wrong?”

“Nothing goes perfectly, but you can’t let yourself spiral over things that are out of your control. We can only control our own choices.”

There’s something about Mike’s vague sage wisdom and calming cadence that just makes him want to keep sharing, desperate to convey the complicated multitude of emotions bubbling up inside him.

“But what if I can’t control my choice even if I want to, and I fuck it all up?” Eddie asks, voice wavering.

Mike’s brows furrow, and he shifts to stand straighter. “…I’m not following.”

“Like, what if the something that goes wrong is _me_? Not even… Not even about college and shit, but… What if I completely fuck up our friendship? Ruin everything because I am who I am, and then Richie hates me and I lose him, I lose everything we mean to each other because I couldn’t keep it together, and I don’t want to—I _can’t_ lose Richie.”

Eddie has to catch his breath, shallow and panting. He can feel his eyes getting watery and fuck, he’s so fucking weak. In an instant, Mike is at his side, bringing him in for a hug. He buries his face in Mike’s chest, letting him cradle the back of his head. There’s something about a Mike Hanlon hug that feels so reassuring, that feels like home.

After a moment they pull apart, Mike keeping his hand on Eddie’s shoulders as he closes his eyes.

“Eddie, it’s okay,” Mike gives him a comforting squeeze. “Your anxiety is just messing with you. I don’t think you could fuck things up with Richie. Speaking from experience, you’re a good friend. Plus, he cares about you so much, and y’all are best friends. We all are, but you two are… a different kind of close.”

Eddie wants to yell that that’s the whole problem, that he’s going to ruin their friendship, the way they trust one another, because of how he feels. But obviously he can’t.

“No, I know I’m gonna, somehow. I’m just… I’m too much.”

Mike frowns. He inspects Eddie, like he somehow knows Eddie doesn’t just mean that he can be too loud and bursting with unbridled energy. If Mike figures it out, he doesn’t bring it up.

“I like you however you are,” Mike says finally. “And so does Richie. But you need to talk to him about this.”

Eddie scoffs. “No fucking way. What the fuck are either of us gonna do about it?”

"If he knows, then you can both be aware of it and try to do what you can to make sure it doesn’t happen. He could reassure you about it. And then you won’t be struggling under the weight of a secret.”

Shifting awkwardly, Eddie crosses his arms. “He’d probably just brush it off.”

“I don’t think so,” Mike shakes his head. “Just… Trust me, I know from experience that if you keep this type of thing from the people you’re close with, your anxieties and fears will just grow. And then one day you’ll blow the fuck up. It’s not as easy to fix things then.” 

Eddie sighs deeply. That’s not really what he wanted to hear—he can’t tell Richie either way, because everything will be ruined. He knows Mike is coming from a good place, but it’s frustrating. It’s not like he would understand Eddie’s specific situation, the intricacies of being in love with your best friend when everything tells you that you shouldn’t be.

“I’ll think about it,” Eddie says, knowing he won’t.

Mike seems to tell he’s lying too, judging by the disappointed look he gives Eddie. He leads Eddie out of the barn and back into the cold so they can head towards the chicken coop.

“Thanks for opening up to me,” Mike says, putting his gloves back on. “I know it can be hard.”

“Thanks for listening.”

“Does it feel any better, now that you said something?”

“Honestly, I feel stupid for saying all of that out loud,” Eddie admits.

“What do you mean? Eddie, it’s not dumb to express yourself. And I don’t think you’re stupid for feeling that way—lots of people worry about that type of shit.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, “Yeah, _sure_. I mean, you’ve got your shit together, Mike.”

“Not really,” Mike admits.

“_What_?”

“Well, I probably have my shit a little more together than you do,” Mike teases, and Eddie swats at him lightly. “But I’m unsure about what’s to come too. You think my rambling about wanting last night to be perfect because the unknown is looming closer indicates that I have it all figured out?”

“I mean, you knew how to articulate my thoughts better than I did,” Eddie shrugs embarrassedly.

“That’s not very hard to do.”

Eddie lets out a squawk of indignation. “I’m sorry, is this not supposed to be some heartfelt, wholesome talk that makes me feel better about myself?”

Mike laughs brightly, “Sorry. Stan’s rubbing off on me, I guess.”

He opens the door to the large chicken coop, letting Eddie walk in first. The chickens squawk harshly, rustling around at their presence.

“You wanna collect the eggs?” Mike asks.

"Uh…” Eddie watches as one of them walks over and starts to peck at Mike’s feet.

Mike snorts, gently picking up the chicken and placing it further away from them. “You can just hold the basket. I need to feed them first though.”

Eddie agrees gratefully, not wanting to piss off one of the hens by taking their eggs.

“Actually, you and I are sorta dealing with similar problems,” Mike says, continuing their previous conversation while pouring the chicken’s food into a bucket. “That’s another good thing that can come from communicating—understanding.”

“What do you mean?” Eddie asks. He really doubts Mike is dealing with something similar to Eddie’s real problem, a confused mess of friendship and romantic feelings and intertwined futures. But maybe he could provide some insight.

Mike starts feeding the chickens out of his palm, and Eddie has no idea how he’s not deathly afraid of the chickens leaving his hands a bloody mess.

“You know how Stan and Bill are applying to colleges in Boston?”

Eddie nods. “Stan said something about spots you might like, right? Did you apply there too?”

“Well, yeah, I applied to Boston University like Stan, and a couple other colleges nearby,” Mike explains.

“So you’re afraid that if you all end up going, something will go wrong?”

Mike sighs, brushing his hands of the feed now that the chickens are done and stares at his open palms. “Not exactly. If I get in, I’m not even sure if I can go. For one thing, even with any financial aid and scholarships, I might not be able to afford it. There’s some money my parents were saving for me before… Well, there’s some, but I’m not sure if it’s enough. And the farm has been doing a lot better over the past few years, but we’re not exactly swimming in cash.”

Eddie hums thoughtfully, sympathizing with him. He’s been saving for years and his own father left him some money, but he’s already resigned himself to student loans.

"But, you know, even if I figure all that out… There’s still the issue of my Pops. We’ve had our differences over the years,” Mike says, handing Eddie the basket for the eggs, “But I love him. He’s taken care of me for a long time. I’m not sure he’d be okay with me leaving for school, and I don’t know how I feel about leaving him behind either.”

“It’s not leaving him behind,” Eddie responds reassuringly, “It’s not like you’ll never see or talk to him again. You need to do things for yourself too, Mike.”

Mike looks at him for a moment and starts collecting the eggs. “I want to live life, have that sense of freedom that I only get close to you with all of you. But I don’t want to leave him without anyone to help him with the farm, y’know?”

“I thought you hated this shit?”

One nearby chicken clucks at them indignantly, very offended.

"Sorry,” Eddie apologizes to it, reaching out to pat its head. The chicken pecks at him and Eddie yelps in pain as he leaps back. Thankfully none of the eggs fall out of the basket.

Mike chuckles. “I don’t hate all of it. There’s parts I’d… rather not do, but I love helping the animals and lazy days in the fields and stuff.”

“But it’s not something you want to be doing for a long time, like him, right?” Eddie questions.

“No,” Mike shakes his head. “And over the years he’s been getting some other help, a couple more farmhands and stuff. That makes me feel a little better. I know we both know that I’m not cut out for all this, but I still don’t want to let him down, for him to think I don’t care or I’m ungrateful.”

“I don’t think that’s possible. You’re one of the most caring people I’ve met, and you’re not shy about it. The people in your life know you’d do anything for them. And we’d do the same,” Eddie says, hoping Mike hears the truth behind his words. “Maybe he wouldn’t understand you leaving at first, but if he’s been taking care of you all these years, he’ll want what’s best for you. Whatever makes you happy.”

Mike eyes brighten up, like he hadn’t really considered that before. “Yeah, maybe.”

He collects a few more eggs, placing them carefully into the basket as he mulls it over. Eddie watches the one rooster in the corner with wary disdain, recalling the traumatic incident last spring that made Eddie decide Mike’s chickens were possessed in the first place. It blinks back at him, cocking its head to the side, seemingly unaware of their sordid history. Eddie narrows his eyes at it. He won’t be fooled into false security again.

“Anyways, point is, I’m not sure I’ll be going off to college, at least not yet. But Stan and Bill will. I mean, they haven’t been accepted quite yet, but the schools would be stupid not to. I mean, they’re smart, and passionate, and good, and… Yeah. They’re good,” Mike smiles to himself, ducking his head down bashfully. “And I want them to go, but sometimes it can be hard hearing them be so excited about Boston and knowing I probably won’t be able to join them. There’s a part of me that worries about them carving out their own lives out there and realizing that I don’t fit in it. That they’ll like it better without me.”

“You’re afraid of losing them too.”

“Yeah. I am.”

Eddie frowns, not used to seeing Mike so downtrodden since they’ve all become close friends. He hates seeing the other boy like this, especially since he’s usually so sunny and bright, a beacon of joy and kindness among the chaos. What Eddie said earlier was true—Mike would do anything for them. It sucks to see him feel like any of them would think life would be better without him.

“Not to steal your line or anything, but I don’t think that would happen. You make everything a lot better Mike,” Eddie says, tentatively putting a hand on his arm.

Mike looks at him appreciatively, “Thanks Eddie.”

“At least we know we’re not alone in feeling this way, I guess,” Eddie shrugs, trying to find a positive in all this.

“Yeah, that helps. But what _really_ helps is that I actually take my own advice, and I’ve talked to Bill and Stan about it.”

Eddie pouts, putting his free hand out to stop him. “No, wait, _shhh_. Don’t back up your suggestions with evidence that it works. Let me live in emotionally closed off ignorant bliss.”

Mike laughs, rolling his eyes fondly. “Sorry, but it does! I mean, obviously it’s something that still worries me, and it hurts when I think about it too much. But now they know how I’m feeling, and how to pull me out from that headspace and reassure me. I’m not holding it all inside anymore, and we can talk about it.”

“You don’t understand,” Eddie sighs, shaking his head, “It’s not that easy.”

“Listen, I get it, I really do Eddie. It wasn’t easy for me to bring it up with them either. But it feels so much better.”

Eddie chews on his bottom lip as Mike finishes up his work in the coop, thinking about it. Maybe Mike’s right, but he really doesn’t get it. Eddie likely wouldn’t be able to bring up his anxieties without Richie discovering the real reason why he’s freaking out—if Eddie was so close to blurting it out to Mike, it’s even less likely he’d keep his resolve around the person who knows how to break down all his barriers. And Eddie’s barely figured out how he feels for Richie. There’s no way he’d be able to tell him right now even if he wanted to. It’d come out a jumbled, insane mess, and telling your best friend you’re in love with them isn’t exactly sane in the first place.

“Alright, I don’t know about you, but I’m freezing,” Mike takes the basket from Eddie’s hands. “Let’s head back?”

Eddie nods eagerly, wanting to get out of the snow and stop talking about feelings.

Still, he appreciates Mike prodding in a weird way, Eddie knows that it helped to talk about shit, even if it’s just because he’ll be less likely to spill everything to Richie now that everything isn’t bottled up. “Thank you, Mike. Seriously.”

Mike nods, clapping his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. As they trek back, Eddie feels a little lighter.

Inside, the house is now bustling with life, chatter filling up the cozy space and a small but steady fire blazing that’s already warming them up, likely made by Ben. They take off their snow-covered boots at the front door and shrug off their coats.

“Morning!” Bev calls out from where she’s helping Ben roll up his sleeping bag. Bill waves at them from his perch on the couch, sketching the winter landscape from his view out the window.

“Haven’t seen you two since last year,” Ben winks, or attempts to, but both of his eyes close clumsily.

Eddie unwraps the scarf from his neck. “We saw each other after midnight.”

“Oh, yeah, well, it’s just a joke, I _know_ that—never mind,” Ben sighs helplessly. “Happy New Year.”

“What the shit Richie,” Stan’s voice comes from the kitchen, “You can’t pester and beg me for shit and then _fuck off_ while I’m trying to talk to you just because…”

Eddie tunes him out as Richie comes out into the living room, pausing to stand awkwardly in the middle and stare at him. Then he crosses the room in two long strides, and for a moment Eddie thinks Richie’s going to hug him, but he stops right in front of him, his fingers barely brushing against Eddie’s wrist.

Just like that, Eddie feels strange again, torn between wanting to enjoy the touch and feeling like he should pull away as if he’d been burned.

Richie clears his throat. “Hey Eds—and Mike. You uh… how are you feeling?”

“Okay I guess,” Eddie shrugs, trying to reign in his emotions.

“Kinda freaked me out last night,” Richie laughs nervously, “I was worried.”

“Don’t be, seriously. I was just cold and not feeling well.”

Richie finally takes his stare off of Eddie and turns it to Mike, eye narrowing. “And Mike thinks it’s a good idea to drag you out in the freezing fucking cold after that? Seriously, what the hell, first you won’t even let me check on him—"

“Richie,” Bill warns from the couch.

“It’s fine, I needed to get some air,” Eddie stops Richie from ranting, “I mean I was probably blowing everything out of proportion last night. You know how I can be.”

Richie frowns, not looking super convinced. “Sorry Mike, I was just—”

“I get it. Tense night.”

“Right. Still, I’m sorry.” Richie nods. “Listen, before break is over, we can share a fat ass apology joint, yeah?”

Mike rolls his eyes, though he doesn’t seem hurt from Richie’s words, “Very selfless of you,” he quips, walking over to the kitchen to set down the basket of eggs. He brushes past Stan, who’s leaning in the doorway.

Richie turns back to Eddie, voice quieter. “Well, next time, you know you can ask me to help you out.”

Eddie nods tersely, biting back the fact that he had specifically asked Mike not to let Richie help him.

“Past results reveal I’m not half bad at being a personal space heater,” Richie lilts.

“Oh, yes, because ‘you’re so hot and sexy it keeps you warm’,” Eddie jokingly quotes Richie from all those nights ago back in September, when they were walking home after the party. Only, oh_ fuck. _He realizes a second how mortifying it was to say that. Why the fuck did he say that? Right now, of all times? Richie probably didn’t even remember that he said that—it was so long ago, and he was crossfaded when he did. But Eddie remembers, because every single moment between them keeps playing on a loop in his mind.

But Richie only laughs. “Glad you noticed.”

Eddie laughs along uncomfortably, hoping Richie didn’t realize how much he actually _has _noticed. Hopefully that’s the end of this conversation.

However, as is apparently the trend for this morning, it’s not. Richie gently closes his hand around Eddie’s wrist, fingers against his pulse point.

“Seriously, though, I mean… Even if you think you’re ‘blowing it out of proportion’, I’m here, Eds,” Richie says, dipping his head down so he can whisper into Eddie’s space. “You don’t have to be embarrassed or anything.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Eddie’s voice cracks.

Unable to be closer any longer, Eddie pulls his hand away from Richie, using it to take off his beanie (Richie’s, he reminds himself), and sets it with his other things. He shuffles past Richie and sits down on the couch next to Bill.

“Mikey, guess what Richie is trying to get us to do?” Stan asks once Mike finishes putting away the fresh eggs.

Mike sighs deeply. “Richie, how many times do I have to tell you that what you’re describing is destruction of private property, and just because I’m interested in the supernatural, I also don’t fuck with that creepy ass place—"

“What? No, he—Wait…” Stan face scrunches up in confusion. He pauses, likely considering asking for clarification, but shakes his head. “No, he’s begging us to make our cookies. Can you believe it? After yesterday?”

“Before you say no, Eds and I bought all the ingredients, or at least, we _think_ we got all of them. Wait, shit, Eddie, did we forget the chocolate chips?”

Stan rolls his eyes, “I think the fact that you’re desperately finding any reason for us to make them should indicate how much I don’t want to make them for you.”

"How many times do I have to say, it wouldn’t be just for me, but for everyone!” Richie explains theatrically, waving his hands around, “Besides, wouldn’t it be a fun way to celebrate us smoothing everything over? Why can’t you make them just for me? Show me you love me.”

“Because I think you’re a pain in the ass.”

“Ah,” Richie waggles his finger back and forth, “Funny, I recall you saying you care about me yesterday, that you greatly cherish our friendship, that things haven’t been the same without me—shall I continue?”

Stan glares at him. “Fine. You’re a good friend that I’m glad to have in my life, that I want the best for,” Richie throws a hand over his heart, touched, “And you’re a pain in the ass.”

Eddie barks out a laugh, throwing a hand over his mouth once he realizes how loud he was. Though it was at his expense, Richie seems happy that Eddie’s showing some emotion this morning, smiling as he looks at him.

“Fine. But it’s still the New Year! What better way to ring it in?”

Stan heaves a frustrated sigh, “Is it really worth all this begging?”

“Yes!” The rest of the losers cry out.

“Actually,” Mike glances at Eddie, “I think we could all use some cookies. Besides, I don’t mind making them when I get to do it with you.” 

A warm smile spreads across Stan’s face. “Oh. Yeah, okay, let’s make them then.”

“See, there we go!” Richie claps his hands together in victory, “I’m a master negotiator.”

“I’m doing this for Mikey,” Stan corrects Richie, turning back into the kitchen.

“_Suuure_, we’ll let him believe that,” Richie winks obnoxiously.

Mike snorts, poking his head into the kitchen, “I’m pretty sure we have everything already. Could you take out the butter and set up the ingredients while I finish up my chores? I gotta feed the kitties.”

“Kitties?” Eddie asks.

“Remember in October, one of the barn cats got pregnant?” Now that Mike mentions it, Eddie vaguely remembers Stan saying something about it when they were heading over to Bill’s for Halloween, though he was much more preoccupied with what Richie had been up to while he was grounded. Looking back on it, the mental real estate Richie takes up in Eddie’s brain really should’ve been a clue to the feelings he harbors. “We were able to sell most of them before the holidays, y’know, families wanting to give their kids cute kittens for Christmas or whatever. Except for one, and the momma cat. My pops wanted to keep them out in the barn, let them try to survive on their own, but I felt bad for them. So, I’m keeping them inside while he’s gone on his trip, making sure they’re warm and have something to eat.”

“Good, it’s too freezing out there,” Beverly says, “Little cuties deserve a nice shelter.”

“Where are they?” Ben asks.

Mike gestures down the hall. “In his room right now, I’ve been checking on them though, don’t worry.”

“He doesn’t want you to keep them inside, so you put them in his room?” Richie laughs, “Didn’t know you could be so rebellious. Stick to it to the man, Michael.”

“They _were_ staying in my room, but I… wanted some privacy for a bit.”

“Aw Mike, I’m sure they won’t judge you for taking an hour to decide which of your four boring ass shirts is going to impress certain someones.”

Mike narrows his eyes at Richie.

“You don’t have any room to judge someone for their clothing choices,” Eddie quips, and Beverly chuckles, nodding in agreement. Richie flips them off, a hand for each of them.

“_We_ wanted some privacy for a bit,” Bill clarifies, raising his eyebrows. Seems he’s still a bit annoyed with whatever happened when Eddie and Richie came over early yesterday.

Mike nods, “Y’know, until _you_ interrupted us.”

“C’mon, that was so long ago. Let’s not hold any grudges.”

Stan scoffs from the kitchen.

“It was yesterday,” Mike replies flatly.

“It was _last year_, amirite Ben?” Richie calls over his shoulder. Ben shakes his head ‘no’, but Richie’s already turned his head around. “See, he gets it.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “No, I don’t. But I’d like to see the cats, if that’s alright Mike.”

“Of course, they can eat out here.”

Mike heads down the hall to grab the cats. While they’re waiting, Richie goes to sit next to him, spreading his legs out so their knees knock together. Eddie scoots closer to Bill, feigning interest in his sketch so that he’s out of Richie’s reach.

A minute later, Mike comes out, cradling a tiny tabby kitten in his arms as an older cat strolls beside him, winding through his ankles and almost making him trip.

“Losers, meet Mrs. Chips, and her daughter, Chips Jr.”

“Chips?” Beverly asks, chuckling.

“They’re named after our old dog, Mr. Chips. Don’t know why they called him that,” Mike shrugs, setting the kitten gently on Bill’s lap. She meows, a small chirp that makes all their hearts melt. “Here, watch her while I grab their food.”

“But she hates me,” Bill protests, Chips Jr. proving his point as she bites at his hand.

Mike smirks, “She’s just wary of rascals. You’ll be fine for a few seconds.”

Eddie looks over at her, noticing that she only has one green eye. He holds out a finger for her to sniff, and when she’s deemed him acceptable, he pets her head. She coos softly, headbutting further into his palm. Mrs. Chips sniffs at Richie’s feet but isn’t impressed.

“What happened to her eye?” Eddie asks as Chips Jr. crawls onto his lap. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Richie watching, smiling.

“Not sure,” Mike calls out from the kitchen, coming back in with two bowls and their food. Stan comes in behind him, carefully carrying a bowl of water, making sure it doesn’t spill over. “The vet wasn’t sure if she was born like that or something else happened to her. That’s why she didn’t get adopted by the other families.”

He takes her from Eddie’s lap and sets her on the ground so she can eat.

“That’s fucked up,” Beverly frowns, watching them have their breakfast. Ben nods in agreement.

Mike sighs, “Yeah, it is. But she’s really smart, she’s adapted to it well.”

Once the cats are done grazing their food, Mrs. Chips lies down between Mike and Stan on the floor. Chips Jr. curiously approaches Ben and Beverly, rubbing her face against Ben’s knees.

“I wish I could adopt her,” Ben scratches her neck carefully, “She’s so adorable, but my dad’s super allergic to cats.”

Chips Jr. starts batting at the strings of Bev’s hoodie, standing on her thighs. Beverly dangles it above the kitten’s head, swaying it side to side.

“You know…” Beverly says as the kitten catches the string and gnaws on it, “Maybe you can, sort of.”

“What do you mean?”

Bev pets Chips Jr., smoothing out her speckled brown fur. “Well, you know, I’m going off to college soon. Hopefully. And even though my aunt never really expected to ever take care of me, she’s been saying she’s going to miss me a lot while I’m gone. That it’s going to be hard to go back to being alone. But if she has a cute little feline companion…”

“That would be great,” Mike says, “I’ll be happy to know she’s with someone trustworthy.”

“You think she’ll be okay with it?” Bill asks.

“Please, taking in a cute badass who’s been through some shit is pretty much her M.O.,” Bev jokes, turning to Ben, “But then you can come over and play with her and stuff, if she says yes.”

Richie gasps in mock offense, “Wow, no invite for us?”

“Well, of course you guys can visit too, but Ben’s… going to be coming around a lot more now,” Beverly explains, a smile playing on her lips.

Eddie’s bushy brows furrow in confusion, not understanding what the fuck she’s talking about. He’s about to ask, but then she reaches over to Ben’s lap and threads their fingers together, a wide beam on her face. Ben smiles shyly, lifting their hands and pressing a kiss to the back of her hand.

“H-holy shit.”

“_Oh my fucking god!_” Richie exclaims, bouncing in his seat, “Did Benny Boy finally pucker up at midnight?”

“Well, _I _was the one who made the first move,” Bev clarifies, “But yes—”

“We’re together now,” Ben finishes, unable to hide his large grin and deep red flush.

“Ay, finally!” Mike cheers, doing a complicated secret handshake with Ben, and fist bumping Beverly, “I’m so happy for y’all.”

“‘Finally’ is right,” Eddie nods, chucking to himself, “It’s been _years_ of you two not realizing you like each other. I mean, all the blatant flirting and blushing and shit… it was so fucking obvious!”

Richie laughs along with Eddie, agreeing. When the two of them catch their breaths, the other losers are looking at them blankly, exchanging incredulous stares with one another. Shit, he must’ve taken it too far.

Eddie clears his throat, “I mean. I’m glad you two figured it out. You’re cute together.”

“It’s all good Eddie,” Ben says, “Though, you know, you always got super bored and annoyed whenever I talked about my feelings for Bev.”

Bill laughs, and Eddie blushes as he remembers Bill saying the same thing to him.

“‘Whenever’, you mean constantly?” Stan teases, scratching Mrs. Chips behind her ears as he grins playfully.

Ben throws his hands up, “Hey, I’ve got no shame for what I feel. Beverly’s wonderful. I’m lucky to be hers.”

No shame. Must be nice.

“You’re wonderful too. Really, I feel like the lucky one,” Bev pecks his cheek.

Richie makes a gagging noise and Eddie nods, gesturing to Richie as he pantomimes throwing up, “See, exactly. You’re so mushy and… _emotional_. It was so weird for me hear because Bev’s like, my sister.”

Bev snorts, “Thanks, Eddie. That’s… weirdly sweet.”

Ben looks nervously to Bill, waiting for him to say something other than ‘holy shit’. They’ve been broken up for well over a year, and obviously Beverly wants to be with Ben, but Eddie understands his trepidation. Bill really cared for her, until they realized they cared for each other better as friends. If only that was the case for how Eddie and his crush on Richie. Everything would be so much easier.

Eddie nudges Bill, and he tears his gaze away from where he was watching Mike and Stan with the cats.

“Huh?”

Eddie tilts his head towards Ben and Beverly.

“Oh, yeah, I mean,” Bill looks back at Mike and Stan for a second, “Yeah. Of course. You guys are perfect for each other. Heads up though, her aunt _is _going to say something involving a cow’s tongue, and it _is_ a threat.”

Ben grimaces, “Right, thanks.”

Eddie’s not totally sure if he believes that Bill’s completely fine with them being together, since he was obsessed with Beverly for so long. It’s weird to imagine that going away. He still doesn’t get why Richie thought it was so ridiculous that Eddie thought Bill might’ve written the poem. But if he’s not going to say anything, Eddie won’t either.

“Well, you know, I wasn’t going to say anything until you two did, but I totally knew it,” Richie declares.

Bev shakes her head, “Bullshit.”

“Um, yeah, ask Eddie. I totally predicted it, right?” Richie throws his feet up onto Eddie’s lap. Eddie pushes them off.

After his realization, Eddie forgot most of what happened the night before, but now he remembers that Richie did in fact theorize that Ben and Beverly were going to kiss at midnight.

“He kinda did,” Eddie admits.

Richie claps his hands together victoriously, adopting that awful detective voice again, “Precisely! Elementary, my dear Eddie!”

“Fucking _stop_ with the detective guy,” Eddie groans, throwing his head back.

“Well, the point is, that I was really begging for cookies to celebrate Ben and Beverly’s magical moment, but I wanted to wait until they were ready—”

Bev sighs and Stan rolls his eyes, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Don’t hate on _love_ Staniel,” Richie admonishes him, “This is a historic occasion! Haystack finally got to kiss the person of his dreams—well, after me of course, and no offense, but Bev was probably a little lackluster compared to me, but you know, not everyone can say they’ve been kissed by the Trashmouth—”

“And thank fuck for that,” Stan quips as Beverly throws a pillow at Richie’s face.

“Richie, I hope this doesn’t absolutely devastate you,” Ben says slowly, barely able to keep his laughter inside as he looks Richie right in the eye, “But that kiss on the cheek meant nothing. I’m sorry, really.”

Richie gasps, putting on his Southern Belle voice, “Oh, Benjamin, how could you be so cruel?! After all we’ve been through, and you just spit me out like chewing tobacco!”

“You sort of veered into redneck territory there,” Bill critiques. Mike hums in agreement.

“Yeah, not your best work,” Stan nods.

Richie scoffs. “I thought you two are supposed to be making cookies for Ben and Bev’s beauteous union, not being haters.”

“Okay, please don’t put it like that,” Beverly blushes, embarrassed.

“If it means we don’t have to listen to your awful impressions anymore, we’ll go and make them,” Stan says, patting Mrs. Chips on the head before getting up.

Mike and Stan head into the kitchen and start the process, Mike’s funky R&B music muffled but still enjoyable. Mrs. Chips comes up onto the couch, seemingly more tolerant of Bill than her daughter as she lays down slowly between him and Eddie.

Richie’s bothering Ben and Beverly incessantly, asking how it all went down—did Ben recite his sappy sonnets? Were his hands all gross and clammy? Did Beverly reek of cigs? Was there tongue?

“Jesus Richie, shut up!” Bev groans, “You know, you don’t have to live vicariously through us, right? There are other ways to deal with your nonexistent love life.”

Bill snorts, shaking his head.

Ben rolls his eyes, “Actually, I think she was talking about doing something about it for once?”

“Okay, fuck you Ben, just because you two finally got together doesn’t mean you have any room to judge with that shit. And anyways, the person I like doesn’t like me back, so.”

Eddie’s stomach twists up, a swell of hope and anxiety crashing over him. Before he can stop himself, he asks, “What? When? _Who_?”

“Yeah, Sonia already said she’s not ready to take it to the next level—she said it would devastate her little Eddie.”

Embarrassed, Eddie scowls, “Oh, fuck the fuck off! You know, you’re not fucking funny with that stupid bullshit!”

He gets up, not wanting to be around Richie and his flippant jokes and constant inquiries about kissing. It’s uncomfortable, but what’s even worse is the way it so easily affects Eddie so intensely.

“Hold on, Eds, I was just saying shit, honestly—”

Eddie flips him off, not looking behind him as he walks into the kitchen.

In total contrast, Mike and Stan seem to be having a lot of fun working on the cookies. Mike is dancing as Stan expertly cracks the eggs with one hand in a fluid motion. Stan moves to wash his hands and Mike spins around, singing into the mixing spoon and serenading him. He gets right in Stan’s personal space, leaning close to his face as he recites the sweet love song playing. Normally, this would be the point Stan would move away or tell someone (Richie) to fuck off, but Stan just grins, throwing his head back as he laughs and moves a little closer.

Mike spots Eddie past Stan’s shoulder and distances himself just a bit. “Eddie, what’s up?”

Stan flinches a bit, spinning around to look at him. “Oh. Hey.”

“Sorry, I just,” Eddie sighs, not able to think of words, “Can I just sit here for a bit? I promise I won’t fuck with your process or whatever.”

Mike laughs, “Yeah, ‘course. Actually, if you wanna get the pans ready, you can.”

Eddie nods, quickly getting the baking pans out and silicone mats on them, placing them on the stove top. He sits on the little barstool tucked away in the corner, swinging his feet to the music. Mike and Stan have a nice rhythm down, weaving around each other with grace, cracking jokes as they work. Stan seems to know where everything is in the kitchen, the spoons and the vanilla extract he forgot to take out. He keeps their space clean as Mike sets things down or accidentally spills some flour as he starts mixing in the dry ingredients.

A few minutes later Richie meanders in, stealing a few of the chocolate chips from their bag and dropping them into his mouth.

“How are those sexy, sexy cookies coming along?”

“I think you use ‘sexy’ too liberally,” Stan says, adding a dash more of vanilla extract into the mixture.

“That’s not very sexy of you to say Stanny,” Richie replies, leaning against the counter, “And also, sexy is a perfect word for your cookies. In fact, they’re better than sex.”

“Like you would know.”

Mike pauses his stirring. “It’ll take longer for us to make these ‘sexy’ cookies if you’re coming in here just to distract us.”

“I’m just coming in here to escape Beverly and Ben,” Richie grimaces, “They’re being all gross. It’s been, what, seven hours? And they already have a kitten! Next week they’ll be making payments on their mortgage. It’s sick.”

“Oh, well I’m sorry _my mom_ doesn’t want to settle down with you,” Eddie bites out, only realizing how lame it sounded after he finishes saying it.

Richie sighs, “I’m sorry, seriously, I didn’t think it was a big deal since I joke about that shit all the time—”

"Yeah, well it wasn’t funny.”

“Guys,” Stan interrupts, “You’re being very distracting.”

“Sorry Staniel.”

Richie hovers over the counter, the two of them staying quiet as Mike and Stan finishing pouring in the chocolate chips and throw their first batch into the oven. His eyes keep drifting over to Eddie, concerned as his fingers drum nervously against the countertop.

After the first batch is done, Eddie is sick of it.

“Stop staring,” Eddie crosses his arms.

Richie straightens up, “Sorry. You just… have a little something here,” Richie points to his own face.

“What?” Eddie rubs at his cheek.

"Yeah, I think it’s…” Richie trails off, narrow his eyes as he looks at Eddie. Then, he reaches into the bag of flour and flicks it at Eddie. He misses the target of Eddie’s face, but it ends up all over the front of Eddie’s chest.

“Richie!” Eddie squawks, “What the fuck?!”

Stan groans, “Seriously Richie?!”

Eddie grabs a spatula by the stove and lunges towards Richie, whacking his arm with it. Richie puts his hands up to protect himself, running back into the living room as he howls with laughter.

“Ow, fuck, Eds!”

The cats freak out as Eddie chases Richie, scuttering back down the hall at the sudden commotion. The two boys twist around the end tables and the big comfy chair, Richie taunting Eddie as they run around. Richie leaps onto the couch and Bill dives out the way just in time to avoid getting trampled.

He snatches up one of the throw pillows, putting on his egregious French accent. “_En garde_, Edgard!”

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

Richie swings the pillow at Eddie, but he grabs it easily before it comes in contact with his body and tosses it to ground. Having used too much force to try to hit Eddie, Richie stumbles off of the couch, falling onto the floor. The blow is somewhat softened by the pillows and blankets still there from the sleepover, but it probably hurts.

But Eddie is pissed off. And maybe he’s trying to translate all the stupid mushy feelings he has for Richie into something else, or maybe he wants to channel all the frustration he’s feeling towards himself for having them in the first place somehow.

Eddie hops on to the floor, swinging one leg over Richie’s stomach and hovering over him so that one knees is on either side of Richie’s frame. He lifts the spatula over his head, prepared to deliver one final blow.

“Do you surrender?” Eddie pants out, chest heaving and heart beating wildly.

Richie looks up at him, glasses crooked on the bridge of his nose, and beams. He weakly puts his hands up, wiggling his fingers.

“White flag, baby.”

It’s said in jest, but the term makes Eddie realize how close they are and he quickly gets up, dropping the spatula onto Richie’s chest.

“Y-y-you two are r-ridiculous,” Bill huffs, tossing his sketchbook onto the couch and going into the kitchen.

Eddie sighs. “I’m going to the bathroom to clean this shit off me.”

He stomps down the hall, hearing Richie ask if Beverly she has something to smoke.

“After how out of breath you were, I really don’t think you should fuck up your lungs more,” he hears Ben say before he shuts the door behind him.

Eddie brushes as much flour as he can into the sink, still out of breath from running around and being so close to Richie. He tries not to look at his reflection, not wanting to look at himself after how stupid he’s been acting. Not sure if he’d be able to stand to look at his face, not after his realization.

But of course, the mirror is pretty impossible to ignore, and he stares at himself for a moment. He doesn’t _look_ any different. Well, he looks red and flustered, but otherwise, he’s the same. Shouldn’t there be something that changed, after such a monumental discovery? Maybe nothing changed because he’s always been like this. He’s always been selfish and stupid and wrong.

(That small part of Eddie, the one that wants to let his heart consume him, tells him nothing changed because he’s always been like this. The same person he’s always been. Full of love and bravery and strength. That there’s nothing wrong with that. But it’s hard to believe that part, when all he’s heard his whole life is otherwise).

Eddie chews on his lips, willing himself not to cry again. He doesn’t even know if he has anything left to be able to. The brown eyes in the mirror bore into him, and he feels so separate from everything he thought he knew about himself. He bites into the fleshy skin of his lips so bad he draws a bit of blood.

“_Shit_,” Eddie hisses to himself, washing it with water and grabbing some toilet paper to stop the bleeding.

Once it stops and Eddie feels somewhat back to normal, he takes a deep breath and heads back into the living room. Mike’s bringing out the plates of cookies, setting them in the middle of the floor.

“Careful,” Mike says as Richie greedily grabs at some before he’s even put them down, “Those one’s are—”

Richie stuffs two into his mouth and gasps, fanning his mouth, “_Ah!_”

“Hot. Those ones are hot.”

“Worth it,” Richie says, mouth full.

The losers all crowd around the cookies, Eddie sitting next to Beverly, away from where Richie is. And shit, the cookies are _good_. Like probably the best batch they’ve ever made, but maybe that’s because Eddie has been having such a colossally shitty day and anything that’s good feels ten times better.

They sit around and chat, Mrs. Chips and Chips Jr. circling around them and sniffing the baked goods interestedly, but no one feeds them any. Eddie starts feeling a little better, comforting treats in his belly and Richie no longer being an asshole or constantly staring at him now that the cookies are out to distract him. (Though, Eddie does catch him watching once or twice).

Going around the circle, the seven of them go over their New Year’s resolutions as they eat. Stan wants to write in his journal more often and try out some new recipes. Richie uses the one Eddie suggested yesterday, to stop being a dipshit, which the rest of them point out that he already failed. Bill wants to try to reach out more when he needs help and get better at writing, and Mike wants to grow some new plants and put some more trust in himself. Cheesily, Ben says he wants to follow his heart, to which everyone groans except for Beverly. More practically, Bev says she’s gonna try to cut down on her smoking, though she also says she wants to try to let herself enjoy more things—not objects but people and experiences.

When they get to Eddie, he really has no idea what the fuck he’s going to say. He doesn’t know what the hell is going on with him, how to even articulate his feelings or problems, and he’s not sure where he wants to end up.

But he knows he wants to escape the clutches of his mother. He wants to take risks, and be stupid, and not worry every fucking second. He knows he doesn’t want to feel trapped in his body and mind anymore, caught between to opposite sides of himself anymore. He just wants to not be burdened by the self-loathing, by the anxiety of not knowing what’s going to happen next. He wishes he could live in those moments with the losers where he doesn’t have to answer to anybody, not even himself, and just _is._

“I guess…” Eddie shrugs, looking down into his lap, “I just wanna be free.”

\---

Unsurprisingly, Eddie’s mom grounds him until the end of break for sneaking out early and staying late at Mike’s. (“_Let alone with that Tozier boy. Eddie, how many times have I said I don’t want you hanging out with him. He’s going to warp your mind,” _she had said when Richie dropped him off. _Ha._ If only she really knew).

It’s only a few days, but they are torturous. With his phone and laptop taken away, he’s stuck sitting around with his own thoughts. He fluctuates between being angry at himself (for liking Richie and for denying that he did) and being sad about it. Sad that one day Richie might find out and everything will be ruined, sad that it can never happen. Not in this house, in this town, not when Richie doesn’t return his feelings.

There are a few times where he lets himself be happy about how he feels, often around when Richie would show up in his window if he were “allowed” to come over, the moon shining brightly in his otherwise dark room. (Richie usually comes over when Eddie’s grounded anyways, but he respects Eddie telling him to not come over until school starts up again. Too risky, Eddie says, which he intends Richie to interpret to mean his mother is really angry this time, that she’s watching over him closely and this whole arrangement will be over if Richie’s caught. But really, Eddie doesn’t think he can handle being around Richie right now).

Maybe happy isn’t the right word, but he lets himself think of all the things he likes about Richie, now that he doesn’t have to go through the mental gymnastics of twisting it into something else and convince himself he feels nothing. How funny Richie can be, how sometimes he says something so weirdly Eddie’s sense of humor and it sends him into a fit of laughter. The bright grin whenever he succeeds in eliciting that reaction from Eddie. That he secretly likes when Richie calls him Eds, only protesting so vehemently because he doesn’t want to reveal how it makes his heart swell, even a little bit. How he feels special when Richie says it, the softness behind his voice. Eddie thinks about how attentive Richie can be sometimes, completely catching Eddie by surprise over the little things he notices about him. What he likes, what he hates, what he needs when he can’t articulate it himself.

He lets himself think, for a moment, about what-ifs. What would it be like if they actually kissed? What dates would they come up with? Would they gently hold hands, the way Ben and Beverly did? It’s something that Eddie realizes he’s thought about before—would Richie be the type to show him off, to do big grand gestures, or would he be more intimate, more vulnerable? That is, if he were to be a secret romantic at all.

Eddie daydreams about them bustling around their apartment in New York, getting ready for their classes and taking the subway together. Holding hands as they weave through the busy streets and Richie walking him to his building, sharing a sweet kiss before they go off about their days.

But he doesn’t let himself think about those things too long, because he feels a sharp stab of shame in his chest. Like he’s not allowed to have those feelings, like it’s stupid to even let himself entertain the thought of an alternate universe where they’re together. Because it is stupid. It’ll never happen, and he’s insane and selfish for even thinking of it.

So, weirdly, Eddie is glad when school starts again. At least there will be some sort of distraction to dull all the emotions and thoughts racing through his brain.

Not wanting any of his friends to pick him up but not wanting him to walk or bike in the cold, Eddie’s mother drops him off at school herself before she goes to work. It’s annoyingly early, and she doesn’t let him drink coffee at home, so he’s half asleep the whole ride over. The campus is practically empty when she pulls up—he’s pretty sure some of the teachers haven’t even arrived yet, and he briefly worries the doors will be locked and he’ll be stuck in the cold.

Thankfully they open, and, more importantly, the heating is on. The halls are pretty much deserted, which means he’s spared from bumping into Richie at their lockers when he drops off the books he doesn’t need until later. Eddie finds a spot to sit and starts going through his phone now that it’s finally back in his hands. (His mother had debated giving it back to him, but ultimately the paranoia of him getting kidnapped or a medical emergency happening without a way for them to contact each other won out). The losers’ group chat has been predictably active—over 350 messages. He skims through some of it, a lot of it jokes and interrogations about Ben and Beverly’s blooming relationship. Apparently, they went on a date and Richie wouldn’t stop texting them, so Beverly sent a selfie of her arm around Ben, the other one giving the camera a middle finger. ‘_Fuck off Trashmouth’. _Aside from other random conversations, there are quick plans to go grab a coffee, a stream of photos of Chips Jr., now living with Bev and her aunt, and nonsensical messages that must’ve been the result of Mike and Richie’s apology joint.

Eddie tries but fails to ignore the many times Richie mentions him. Little things, like ‘_eddie would hate that u said that’ _(he really would’ve), or, ‘_eddie would back me up on this’ _(he wouldn’t have), or _‘i wish eddie could’ve come’. _

There are also their own personal messages, where Richie has left him stupid memes and pictures of himself, random thoughts and things that reminded him of Eddie. It was only a few days, but there are a lot of texts from him. Probably in part due to the fact that Richie likes to send bursts of little texts instead of one regular text, like the last few he sent Eddie yesterday.

_drove by ur place coming home from hanging with stan_

_wanted to come up n watch a movie or smth _

_or just b with u_

_i miss annoying you_

Eddie smiles despite himself, hands hovering the keyboard. Before he actually thinks about it, he replies to Richie.

_I missed you annoying me too._

He instantly regrets sending it, even though it’s not particularly revealing about his feelings anyways. Before he can even think of any damage control, the bell rings and he has to get to his first class. Eddie’s boring physiology teacher does nothing to help his groggy state, though the worksheets at least provide a distraction.

It’s enough of one that he forgets he has government with Richie next (or, economics, now that they’ve started a new semester). When he steps out of his classroom and sees Richie waiting outside as he usually does, he stops in his place for a moment, causing someone to bump into him. Eddie had hoped the time apart would’ve meant he’d be less conflicted and overwhelmed seeing him, that it would feel more like normal, but it’s not. Richie looks nice, or, he’s not wearing bright clashing colors and a Hawaiian shirt, but a large old ugly sweater, probably one he got at the thrift store with Bev when she was finding clothes to repurpose. But it looks cozy and inviting, and Eddie hates that he finds it endearing.

He suddenly realizes how quintessential high school relationship it is for Richie to wait for him, especially when Eddie knows he has to go out of his way from the other side of the building to get here. It would be faster for them to just meet at the class, but Richie always insists on walking with him. Eddie thinks of his daydream briefly, the one where they’re at NYU, Richie giving him a kiss when he drops him off. Maybe they really aren’t that far off from that in reality. The thought twists his stomach, and once again he’s not sure if it’s a good feeling or absolutely terrible.

“Eds!”

Richie smiles when he sees him and tugs him into a quick hug before Eddie can even register it’s happening. He pulls away, but Richie keeps one arm thrown over Eddie and starts walking, so Eddie just goes along with it. Don’t act too weird. This is normal for the two of them, and freaking out about it would just call attention to the fact that he’s getting flustered.

Eddie clears his throat. “Hey Rich.”

“God, never thought I would say this, but I’m glad school started up again,” Richie says, “It was so fucking boring without you. I mean, it was fine, I guess, but Ben and Beverly are all like,” he makes kissy noises, puckering his lips right by Eddie’s face, which is likely turning a concerning shade of red.

“Really?”

Richie shrugs, “Well, sort of. I know I was sick of them dancing in circles around each other and shit, and I mean, I’m happy for them, but it’s kinda like. _Ugh_, you know what I mean?”

Eddie nods absently. So, he’s not the romantic type.

Richie jostles Eddie’s shoulder and lets out a wistful sigh. “This is it Eds. Second semester of senior year.”

Shit. Obviously, Eddie had known that, but the magnitude of it really settles in then. The clock on what time they all left together is ticking further and further along. With all the stress of school and personal shit, the first semester went all too fast. In a couple months they’ll know what colleges they got into, and a month after that, decide where they’ll be the next four(ish) years of their life. These are the last moments they’ll all be together how they are now.

And instead of trying to enjoy it, he has to deal with the intrusive dilemma of being in love with his best friend.

Eddie looks over at Richie, barely registering what he’s saying but rather focusing on him. The way he gestures broadly with his hands, flying all over the place and accidently smacking into some sophomores. His excited eyes, how he brushes his curls out of his face, always expressive. Eddie might not always be interested in the stories or jokes Richie tells, but there’s something captivating about how he tells them.

“And like, I’m not totally sure if the raccoon wanted some of my weed, or if it was a fucking narc or something, but we were just _intensely_ staring at each other for like a minute,” Richie says, closing his fist dramatically and narrowing his eyes, and Eddie wishes he had actually been listening, because what the fuck is he talking about? “I kinda feel bad about not sharing with it. Anyways, enough about that. What did you do to keep yourself from going crazy for the rest of break?”

He thinks of how he alternated between anguishing and daydreaming about Richie, so overcome that he screamed into his pillow once, and his mom had called after him in concern.

“Oh, you know…” Eddie trails off, shrugging. “Stuff.”

Richie rolls his eyes, and finally takes his hand off Eddie’s shoulder to open the classroom door. (Though, as relieved as he was to not deal with their close proximity, he also misses the way it tethered them together). Eddie grabs the worksheets on the table by the door for both of them as Richie heads to their usual table at the back of the class.

The late bell rings as they get settled—Eddie taking out his notebook and highlighters, and Richie popping a stick of gum into his mouth and leaning back, putting his arm around the back of Eddie’s chair.

“Your hair’s getting long,” Richie says, gently tugging at his hair, his fingers brushing the nape of his neck.

Eddie jumps at the contact and swats his hand away. “Don’t fuckin do that.”

“Why, you ticklish?” Richie waggles his fingers, moving closer to Eddie’s side threateningly.

“Mr. Tozier,” their teacher, Ms. Robison says sternly, mispronouncing his last name as she always does. Richie thinks she does it on purpose because she hates him—Eddie doesn’t totally blame her considering how disruptive Richie is. “It’s disrespectful to not only me, but Mr. Kaspbrak and your other classmates, to be so disruptive and distracting. Let’s at least _try_ to start this semester off right?”

Richie retracts his hand, blowing up his gum and letting it pop loudly. “Of course, Ms. Robitussin,” he smiles mockingly, mispronouncing her name as well. Some of their classmates’ giggle at his usual class clown antics.

She narrows her eyes at him and takes a deep breath before starting off the lesson. “So, what do you all know about American economics?”

Betty Ripsom raises her hand. “It’s a capitalist economy?”

“Yes, good. Does anyone know what that means?”

“Means the rich exploit workers and consumers and take all the money,” Richie says as a couple other students raise their hands, twirling around the pen he took from Eddie’s pencil case in his hands.

"Well, it’s always such a pleasure to hear your… insights, Mr. Tozier,” Ms. Robison says through gritted teeth, “Raise your hand next time.”

Richie rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair so half of it is off the ground. He shares a look with Eddie, like, _can you believe her_? Eddie doesn’t necessarily like Ms. Robison, but in this particular instance he’s glad she has it out for Richie, since it means he can’t be quite so… touchy with Eddie.

Eddie tries to pay attention as the rest of the class discusses, copying the word cloud she creates on the whiteboard, but Richie’s being very distracting. Drumming his pen against the desk, rifling through Eddie’s highlighters to doodle little aliens on the piece of paper Eddie gave him when Ms. Robison yelled at him for not taking notes. (Richie, annoyingly, does not need to take notes most of the time and just remembers things, though he probably wouldn’t put in any effort if he had to). And, per usual, he keeps nudging Eddie’s arm and leaning into his space to keep a running commentary of the class and whisper stupid jokes.

“Supply and demand,” Peter Gordon calls out without raising his hand.

Ms. Robison writes it on the board, not reprimanding him. “Yes, we’ll be doing a lot of that analysis semester.”

Richie bends his head down closer to Eddie. “Let’s analyze the supply and demand of this dick, amirite?”

He rolls his eyes, “Can’t do that if there’s barely any supply or demand in the first place.”

Richie lets out a loud noise, half laughing, and half offended. Ms. Robison glares at them for a moment and then continues.

"Jesus, Eds, you cut deep,” a smirk spreads across his face, “But I’m not sure your assessment is totally correct.”

"Sorry, your lies about making out with Betty Ripsom or getting any from _anyone_ didn’t work in middle school, and they sure as shit don’t work now. I don’t see any girls lining up to be with you,” Eddie quips.

“Ah, that wasn’t the part I was talking about, Eddie,” Richie winks, and Eddie’s pen stills for just a second. A moment later Richie’s face falls, “Which sounded a lot cooler in my head, just ignore the part where it sounds like no one wants me, and focus on the part where I have a hu--”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up asswipe, I fucking get it! That’s not even—you’re so fucking stupid, you know that right? If I get detention the first day back my mom is gonna flip.”

Richie chuckles softly, but doesn’t bother Eddie much more during class, at least in a way that Ms. Robison will notice.

When the bell finally rings, they pass their papers to the front of the class and leave, heading to their lockers during their first small break. Eddie’s glad he cleaned out the lockers before winter break, because Richie’s is blissfully clean and void of toxic mold. Of course, Richie immediately throws loose papers in there and ruins it, but it’s better than before.

“Come with me to get a muffin?” Richie asks, digging out some crumpled dollars from the front pocket of his backpack. “I’m fucking starving.”

“Maybe if you actually ate breakfast in the morning, you wouldn’t be.”

Richie waves his hand dismissively. “I would’ve been even later than I already was. Besides, why bother when you always give me something to eat when I pick you up?”

“Whatever, yeah I’ll come. You wanna wait for Bill and Stan?” he nods his head towards their lockers across the hall.

“Nah, we’ll see them later,” Richie shakes his head and slams his locker shut.

The line is frustratingly long, and Richie bounces anxiously, hoping to get one of the coveted chocolate chip ones. He talks Eddie’s ear off as they slide down the line, about nothing in particular. The normality is nice and easy, Eddie doesn’t have to work so hard on trying to forget what he feels for Richie when they strike up a heated debate about how’d they fare in a zombie apocalypse.

“I wouldn’t fucking kill you.”

“Richie, if I’m all gross and infected and shit, you should obviously kill me! Save yourself.”

“No, it’s not right.”

Eddie groans. “I’m literally giving you permission to, dumbass.”

“If you die, or turn or whatever, then there’s no point sticking around in a shitty wasteland without you. I’d spend as long as I could with you and then we could be like… sexy zombies or whatever.”

He ends up with blueberry, and by the time they get out of line there’s only a minute of break left.

Richie tears it in half (sort of), and hands one of the pieces to Eddie. “For your fine company.”

“Thanks,” Eddie takes a bite.

The bell rings as they leave the cafeteria, and they walk just a few steps down towards Eddie’s class. Richie ruffles the top of Eddie’s head as they part.

“See ya at lunch Spagheds!”

Now separated from Richie, Eddie is stuck in a bit of a daze throughout his English class, the energy of being around Richie hitting him in a delayed manner. Is he just biased from his crush, or was Richie being overly affectionate this morning? It’s probably just wishful thinking, but he thinks over everything as he goes through the rest of his classes until lunch, half paying attention. The jokes and the constantly pulling Eddie into his space was a lot, though not totally irregular. Richie was probably just more intense because they hadn’t seen each other for a bit. The only thing that pulls Eddie from his thoughts is his next class, when his evil AP Stats teacher pranks the class by asking them to turn in their project at the start of the lesson, a collective confusion and panic rippling among the students since they had never been assigned one.

So, Eddie’s grumpy and frustrated with his lack of understanding math (and the whole situation with Richie) when lunch starts, but he cheers up seeing Ben, Stan, and Mike at the table.

“Eddie!” Ben smiles widely as he slides beside him. “We didn’t see you earlier, we thought your mom might’ve kept you from school or something.”

“Yeah, sorry, Richie dragged me along to get some breakfast,” Eddie explains. “I wouldn’t put it past her though. It’s good to see you guys.”

Stan nods across from him. “Yes, it is. And maybe Richie will be slightly less insufferable again.”

“Aw c’mon, don’t be so harsh on Richie,” Mike says next to him, “I think it’s sweet.”

A tray slams against the table, making everyone jump. Richie sits next to Mike, putting on a low, demonic voice. “Say my name three times, and the Big Bad Tozier shall appear!”

“Yes, he’s _so_ sweet,” Stan deadpans.

“Were you just… eavesdropping?” Ben asks.

“No. Well, sort of, I was waiting for _your girlfriend_,” Ben blushes at Richie’s words, “to hurry her ass up in line.”

“Fuck off,” Beverly pushes the back of Richie’s head as she walks past him, rounding the table and bending down to give Eddie a small hug before sitting next to Ben on the other side. She kisses him gently on his cheek, making him flush even more, if that’s possible.

Everyone starts eating (the cafeteria food unappealing as usual, according to Bev and Richie), chatting about the school day so far—annoying AP teachers already assigning too much, asshole classmates like Gretta Keene, the usual. Bill runs up to their table a few minutes into their conversation, gasping for air as he squeezes in between Stan and Mike.

“What’s up Bill?” Mike asks, concern in his voice.

“I g-got,” Bill attempts to catch his breath, “I got m-m-my letter from Emerson.”

They all straighten up and lean forward. Since Bill applied for early action, he’s getting his decision earlier than everyone else. Last year he worked super hard to get in, and now they’ll see if it payed off.

“When did you get it?” Stan questions.

“I s-saw it in th-the kitchen th-this morning,” Bill says, his stutter worsening as he stares at the envelope, “And th-th-_shit_-then I got held up after art s-so I couldn’t open it during break.”

“You don’t wanna open it with your parents?” Ben asks.

Bill frowns. “No, I don’t th-th-think they r-really… care th-that much. I w-waited to open it w-with you guys, cause, well… You’re my family.”

Eddie can tell they all feel that warm pull on their heart, that magic of Bill Denbrough and the bond they all share. They share fond looks, and Mike pulls Bill close while Stan squeezes his other arm comfortingly.

“Well? Open it!” Bev squeals excitedly.

“Okay,” Bill takes a deep breath and starts opening the envelope.

They all come in closer, Eddie can feel Richie’s long legs jostle against his ankles in anticipation. After wrangling with the envelope for a little too long, Bill unfolds the letter, looking over it for a while, his eyes flying over the words. His mouth parts in shock, but none of them can tell if it’s the good kind or not.

“C’mon Bill, if you’re this fucking illiterate I don’t know how you could’ve gotten in,” Richie snaps.

“_Shhh_,” Stan silences him harshly.

Eddie throws a carrot at him in admonishment. Richie grabs it and takes a bite, his face twisting in disgust when he realizes he’s eating something healthy for once. His eyes narrow at Eddie, so he sticks his tongue out at him, just a little. _Ha ha. Serves you right. _

“So?” Mike asks.

Bill looks up at all of them, the paper shaking in his trembling hands. “I… g-g—”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Richie groans under his breath.

"I got in?”

The questioning disbelief in his voice keeps everyone on edge, and Bill lets Stan take the letter from his hands, stuck in shock.

Stan scans it quickly. “He got in!”

They all start hollering loudly, leaping out of their seats and excitedly wishing him congratulations. It garners judgmental looks from the other students in the cafeteria, but they don’t care. Because Bill is smiling, _really _smiling, and he maybe looks a bit embarrassed as they smush him into a tight hug and Beverly and Richie kiss his face at the same time, but he’s _happy_.

“Th-thanks guys,” Bill blushes, looking over the letter again, shaking his head in astonishment.

“I knew you would get in,” Mike grins proudly.

“That m-makes one of us. I s-sort of think they made a m-mistake.”

Mike shakes his head. “No, they didn’t. You’re amazing Bill.”

Bill smiles at Mike, his blue eyes glistening with emotion.

“Also, I knew you’d get in too,” Stan says, “We all did.”

Bev nods enthusiastically, “That horror novella you submitted was so good! Well, the end could’ve used some work, but…”

“That’s why you’re going to college to learn,” Ben finishes for her eloquently.

“Exactly,” Beverly smiles gratefully for the save, resting her head on his shoulder.

Before Eddie sits back down, he gives Mike’s shoulder a small comforting squeeze to let him know he’s here for him. Obviously, Mike is happy for Bill, but after their conversation on New Year’s Day, it’s likely Mike’s also feeling bittersweet about it. Now that Bill’s got in, he’s going to Boston for sure, and Mike may not be able to follow. Even though Mike’s said he’s talked to Bill and Stan about it, and that makes it easier (which Eddie still thinks is bullshit), he’s sure Mike could use someone outside the three of them to talk to. Since he listened to and took care of Eddie, he’ll do the same for Mike. Mike seems to understand the meaning of the gesture, catching his eyes and smiling at him. He gives Eddie’s hand a pat, nodding gratefully.

Back in his seat, Eddie eats his lunch as the others speak excitedly about Boston, and what Bill’s going to do once he’s there. They joke and jest about dorm life, the horrors that Bill will have to face. Stan promises to buy him an arsenal of cleaning supplies, though it’s likely Bill’s going to be messy himself.

Eddie notices that for once, Richie is quiet. Usually, especially during lunch, Richie is extremely loud and constantly cutting everyone off to get in a lame joke. Given how energetic he had been earlier in the day, chatting Eddie’s ear off and jostling him around, it’s strange that he’s not joining in the conversation. He can almost hear the stupid punchlines he’d be telling about college parties or the hypothetical of Bill walking in on his roommate in a compromising position. At the very least, he’s shocked Richie isn’t taking advantage of the celebratory mood to suggest more of Mike and Stan’s glorious cookies.

But instead, Richie is staring at his tray of food, eyes glazed over and brows furrowed deeply. One hand props up his head, and he’s chewing on his bottom lip, consumed and worrying over whatever he’s thinking about.

Eddie taps him with his leg—it’s probably more of a kick on his shin, but either way the action does as intended, since Richie’s head snaps up.

“_Ow, _what the fuck Eds?” Richie hisses, quiet enough that the others don’t hear, too wrapped up in some story Beverly was telling about her aunt’s college experience, something involving a taser.

Eddie raises a questioning brow, their silent way of asking if the other is okay. Richie waves him off, shaking his head and going to take a sip of his juice.

“Just tired,” Richie says, taking a bite of his food before Eddie can call bullshit.

Which he would, because he really doesn’t believe Richie. He knows how Richie gets when he’s tired, the droopy eyes and clinginess, exaggerated yawns and rubbing at his eyes. That’s not what he’s doing right now. What Richie’s doing right now is what he does when something’s bothering him. _Really_ bothering him.

As much as Eddie wants to keep pestering him until he spills, he knows he should just give Richie some space. They’ve always tried to respect each other’s space, waiting for the other to come and talk whenever they needed to. Besides, it’s hypocritical for Eddie to be annoyed that Richie’s keeping whatever it is that’s bothering him a secret, seeing as Eddie is keeping one from him as well.

It’s probably something to do with Bill’s acceptance letter, seeing as he was perfectly fine before that. Or maybe the whole college thing in general. Just a couple months ago he was freaking out in Eddie’s room, saying he thought it was all worthless. Is he feeling those same doubts again?

Eddie keeps a close eye on Richie the rest of lunch, watching as he keeps zoning out, leg bouncing anxiously against his across the table.

\---

Later that night, tucked away in his bedroom and finally free of his mother’s smothering presence, Eddie finds that he can’t sleep. He had some relaxing tea that Stan recommended him before bed, changed into his favorite pajamas (warm sweatpants and Richie’s science camp hoodie), and even tried counting sheep, but all he could think about was that weird sheep of Mike’s that stared him down. Nothing was working. Eddie kept tossing and turning, sheets getting twisted up between his legs. He flips on his back with a frustrated huff.

His anxious intrusive thoughts won’t shut the fuck up. Thousands of scenarios where Richie finds out Eddie likes him and it ruins their whole friendship keep playing on a loop in his mind. Sometimes one doesn’t finish before his brain conjures up another one, and it becomes this disjointed supercut of fights and tears and Richie walking away.

Eddie tries to think of good things, real or not. Him running freely in the fields on Mike’s farm, the breeze on his skin. The sturdy feeling of tools in his hands as he fixes Richie’s car, in control for once. The losers floating lazily on the surface of the quarry, joking around and telling stories, no one to bother them.

But then he starts thinking of himself and Richie. Him and Richie watching the fireworks together, only when Richie catches him staring, he _definitely_ looks at his lips, and leans in. Richie holding his hand as they weave through the crowd at homecoming, but he doesn’t let go. Eddie strolling up to their lunch table and giving him a kiss like Beverly did to Ben today. The two of them riding down the highway full speed whooping and hollering and when he thinks of leaving Derry, Eddie doesn’t freak out and pull over but rather tells Richie, who says it’s the best idea he’s ever heard and they run away. Richie kissing him against his car after he finally figures out how to fix that backseat window. Richie helping him smoke out of the pipe, inches away, but Eddie didn’t hesitate this time.

Seeing him today just amplified everything, now that he had gotten over the initial shock of his realization. The nerves, the self-loathing, the bubbly fondness and bittersweet twisting of his heart. And Richie was… _so much_ today, until the end of lunch at least. Loud and touching Eddie constantly, flirtatious jokes and banter that meant nothing, bouncing hyperactively and sending him mischievous smiles. Everything that Eddie secretly likes about him.

And if Eddie’s being honest with himself—which he usually isn’t, but has become forced to lately—part of the reason he can’t fall asleep is the fact that Richie hasn’t slept over in about a month. The last time was when they were working on Richie’s college apps, before the losers even had their holiday get together. They would’ve slept on the floor next to each other on New Year’s Eve if Eddie hadn’t had a panic attack and stayed in Mike’s room. Between his mother forcing him to spend quality time together for the holidays and him being grounded, Richie hasn’t been able to come over.

Even though Richie _does_ hog the blankets thank you very much, constantly wraps himself around Eddie, plus a dozen other annoying habits, Eddie sleeps better with him there. It’s become such a constant in his life that it feels weird not to fall asleep beside Richie, to not hear his breathing and feel the weight and warmth of him.

At a certain point his body and brain are too exhausted to come up with more torturous scenarios. His eyes can barely stay open, so late that it’s technically morning, and Eddie begins to drift off. He’s just fallen asleep when he hears his bedroom window slide open, cold air blowing into his bedroom and over his body.

It’s late, later than Richie usually comes if he was planning on coming over. The last time Eddie checked his phone it was half past one in the morning, and that was probably a while ago. Richie really only ever visits him this late and without warning if something’s wrong—so bad that he can’t stand to be by himself anymore. Knowing that’s likely why he’s here makes Eddie’s chest feel hollowed out.

He doesn’t say anything at first—sometimes Richie can’t handle words on nights like these, just wants to slip into bed unnoticed. Eddie turns enough that he can look at him in an attempt to gauge the situation. Well, he sort of looks at him. It’s nighttime, so Richie’s only illuminated by the moonlight trickling in through the curtains. But Eddie tracks his silhouette as he moves around the room, toeing off his shoes and tossing them by the closet, taking off his glasses and plugging his phone in so it can charge. There are some muttered expletives as he stubs his toe, the jangling of his car keys as he sets them on the nightstand. Soft sniffles that he tries to hide but Eddie hears, because it’s so quiet in the room and because it’s Richie, and Eddie’s attuned to that kind of thing when it comes to him.

Richie crawls into bed beside him after a few moments of shuffling around, and Eddie turns to his side, his back against the wall. It’s still hard to see everything, but now that Eddie’s eyes have gotten adjusted to the low light and Richie’s inches away from his face, he can get a good enough look at him. Without his glasses, it’s easier for Eddie to see his eyebags, darker and deeper than usual. But what really concerns Eddie is the redness in Richie’s eyes. Not from being high, but raw and bleary from tears. Eddie watches one fall as Richie blinks, following it as it travels down his sharp cheekbones. The sight of Richie looking so broken is enough for Eddie to start feeling choked up.

Apparently, it’s all too much for Richie, and he moves closer to Eddie so he can bury his face in the crook of his neck. Slowly, Eddie wraps his arms around Richie’s frame, the other boy breathing deeply against him. It’s rare for Richie to be so vulnerable, and it’s been so long since their nights, even bad ones like these, have Richie crying. Of course, he’s not sobbing embarrassingly like Eddie did with Mike, but judging from how miserable his eyes looked, Eddie thinks he might’ve been before he decided to drive over. Eddie cards his fingers through the back of Richie’s hair, getting caught on some of the tangles and curls.

After a while, Richie sighs deeply into Eddie’s chest and brings his head back onto the pillows, though he’s still right by Eddie’s side, legs entangled already.

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, placing the hand that was running through Richie’s curls in the space between their heads.

“Hey,” Richie says, his voice wet and rough from crying.

They stare at each for a moment or two, Eddie letting Richie calm down.

“So… What happened?”

Richie heaves a sigh and turns onto his back, looking up at the ceiling. “Today, when Bill got his acceptance letter… I mean, shit, obviously I’m happy for him, but everything just hit me.”

Eddie figured it was something to do with Bill getting accepted into Emerson, given how strangely Richie had been acting at the end of lunch. He hums to let Richie know he’s listening, but he doesn’t want to interrupt him.

“This whole time, senior year was just this idea that I was so close to getting the fuck out of here. That I was just going to enjoy my time with all of you and do stupid shit because none of this would matter soon,” Richie continues, eyes still fixed upward. Too emotional to look at Eddie. “But today, it was like. _Fuck_,” his voice breaks, “This is really happening, and it’s a big deal. My best friends, the only people who _get_ me, are going off to have their own adventures. I won’t be able to go out for a quick smoke with Bev, or watch sitcoms with Ben, or count how many times Bill is a total dumbass.”

“I don’t think it’s even possible to count that high,” Eddie jokes, trying to bring down the tension building in Richie’s body with the thing he knows usually works the best.

Richie chuckles and turns his head to look at Eddie, taking in every part of him in as he thinks.

“I guess it just made me realize that I’m afraid of everything changing and being left behind. That I’ll be forgotten and alone.”

Eddie frowns, wanting to reach out but keeping his hand still where it rests between them.

He’s no stranger to the feeling, being scared of growing up and whatever will come out of this big change in their lives. But Eddie’s never really thought about it that way—being left behind. He worries about the losers never being the same way they are now, or him doing something to fuck everything up, but not forgotten by one another. Eddie can’t imagine them being distant memories, not when they’ve made such a deep impact on each other’s lives, not when they’re each other’s family. If all of it was gonna fall apart, it would be a painful scar on his heart that he could never ignore.

But Eddie knows there’s that part of Richie that makes him feel insignificant. Like a failure. Which to Eddie, makes no sense. How could someone so loud and funny and uniquely charming be insignificant? How could he think that he means nothing to others when sometimes it feels like he’s the only person who understands Eddie, when he’s the person Eddie’s in love with? Of course, he doesn’t know that, and he can’t.

“Rich,” Eddie says, tone serious so Richie knows he means every word he speaks, “You’re important. Like, so fucking important to me that it kinda terrifies me. I’d never forget you, okay? And neither would the others. Losers stick together.”

He hears Richie’s breath hitch and feels the mattress shift as Richie turns his body towards him again. Eddie can’t decipher the expression on his face—lips parted; eyes wide but still sad, searching for something in Eddie’s own. Though in the lowlight, Eddie can tell that whatever it is, it’s heavy, so full of emotion that he has to close his eyes.

“Eds, I…”

Whatever Richie was going to say, he doesn’t continue, leaving the tender timbre of his voice to hang over the air. 

Eddie thinks of Mike telling him to be vulnerable with Richie, to tell him what’s going on. Again, revealing his feelings is not an option, _duh_. But if Richie is allowing himself to be so exposed, maybe Eddie can too.

This space is a sort of sanctuary they created together, a place for them to just _be, _no one else to watch or listen. Just Eddie and Richie. A confessional to share their secrets in whispered voices and touches that feel so much more important in the dark. They’ve seen each other at their most open in this bed, whether it’s them being fucking idiots and laughing at nothing, or more serious moments like these, peeling back the heavy curtains they close over their hearts. Letting a little light shine in.

Maybe if he says something here, even if it’s not the thing he wants to say deep down, he’ll feel better. So intimate that it’ll feel like confessing everything without having to face the scary parts of it.

He counts to ten and opens his eyes slowly. “It scares me too. Thinking about losing what we have.”

Richie shifts closer, so much that Eddie can feel his breathe fan across his face, and his hand reaches out, coming up to cup the side of Eddie’s face. For a second Eddie’s body stiffens, unsure what to do with the contact, but allows his body to relax as Richie looks at him with wide, softhearted eyes.

“Promise me something?”

Eddie lets himself soak in the way Richie’s thumb brushes across his cheeks, holding him gently but firmly. He revels in the feeling, the love and warmth and belonging that comes along with Richie’s touch. He lets the softness in Richie’s voice echo in his ears, the tone that seems reserved just for him.

“Anything.”

“Promise that no matter what, we’ll stay together.”

Eddie feels his heart stop for a second, and he hopes Richie doesn’t notice. That’s exactly what Eddie wants—for them to be together, for them to stay like this. Only, not exactly like this. Now that Eddie realizes how he deeply he feels for him, he knows just Richie’s friendship will never be quite enough. All these moments they share, soft and intimate and full of caring—it’s so close to what Eddie’s heart wants, but it’s not the real thing. For Richie, this is all about their friendship, their special connection, not anything romantic.

Which, in understanding how helplessly deep he is in his affections for Richie, Eddie’s pretty sure he can classify it as love. The way that he feels for Richie, the way he wants to stay in moments like these forever—that’s big enough to call it love.

He’s in love with Richie. Fuck.

So, Eddie’s hesitant to promise that to Richie.

If Richie doesn’t know how Eddie truly feels about him, then how can he know he wants to stay together with him? How can Eddie promise that when he knows that this love he feels for Richie isn’t going away anytime soon? It’s pretty much inevitable that everything will come crashing down if Richie finds out, and who knows when Eddie will slip up? He’s fine now, but it’s proving to be increasingly difficult not to say anything or act upon his feelings. 

But with all that in mind, Eddie still wants to give Richie his promise. It’s selfish, but he wants to hold onto this thing they have for as long as possible.

“I promise.”

Richie splits into a grin, relieved and excited. “Okay. Me too.”

Eddie’s own lips turn upward slowly despite his efforts to suppress them, mirroring Richie’s smile until it takes up most of his face.

Their smiles fade eventually, but the lingering happiness thrumming through their veins radiates from their bodies. In this state, half asleep and euphoric, Eddie’s not exactly sure where their limbs knock into each other. He feels a leg laying over his ankle; his own knee pressed against Richie; chests almost flush. Fingertips that wander closer to Richie, resting over the arm that’s not outstretched to Eddie’s cheek. That’s the part that’s most clear to Eddie, even though it feels like it should be part of a dream. The pads of Richie’s thumbs languidly tracing over the smooth skin of his face.

Richie stares at him with that unknowable gaze, searching for something in his face. For once, Eddie doesn’t shut his eyes or look away.

The air they share feels charged, the promise both momentous and reassuring. Eddie’s heart is swelling with the affirmation that the two of them care deeply for one another. That Richie wants to stay together with him. Maybe it’s a bit scary, but right now Eddie’s focusing on the ways it makes him feel good. Safe, understood, special.

Just inches away from him, covered with blankets and sheltered in the strange and almost unreal time between night and daylight, Eddie feels that pull on his sternum again. He wants to show Richie how special he is to him, how much he truly wants to keep Richie close, with more than just words.

Briefly he wonders if Richie’s thinking the same thing, his stare dropping to Eddie’s lips for a moment, but it’s likely a combination of the lack of light, his exhausted state, and, unfortunately, a projection of his own feelings.

A kiss is out of the question, obviously, but something about the whole exchange feels unfinished. He has to do something.

Eddie slowly places his hand over Richie’s, the one still cradling the side of his face. Richie’s thumb stills over his cheekbone as he watches Eddie carefully. Maybe it’s too much, but Eddie doesn’t want to draw his hand away. He grabs Richie’s hand, turning it gently so he can thread their fingers together, palms touching. Giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, Eddie tries to put everything he’s feeling into the gesture. The closeness, the understanding, the fear, the love he holds for Richie. He can almost feel Richie doing the same when he squeezes Eddie’s hand back even tighter, so hard that it almost hurts. Richie releasing his emotions into Eddie’s skin, no words needed.

Of course, it’s not quite the same thing as Eddie feels.

A tremendous yawn starts to escape from Eddie’s mouth, and he twists his head further into their clasped hands, so he doesn’t yawn right in Richie’s face.

Richie laughs softly. “Tired?”

“No, no, I’m fine, sorry.”

“I came over super late,” Richie shakes his head, “Let’s go to sleep.”

Eddie brushes his thumb against Richie’s, “You sure? Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah. I’m better now,” Richie nods.

They stare at each other for a moment, neither of them moving. Richie sighs through his nose and gives Eddie’s hands one last squeeze before pulling away. Eddie stills feels the warmth he left behind, the ghost of Richie’s fingertips tracing his skin.

“Roll over,” Richie instructs sleepily, letting out a yawn of his own.

Eddie turns to his side, facing the wall his bed is pushed against. The mattress shifts and dips as Richie gets comfortable, pulling the blankets closer towards him.

He feels Richie’s head come to rest between his shoulder blades, breath tickling the nape of his neck and making the hairs stand up. Richie drapes his arm, the one that was outstretched to him moments before, over his waist, pulling them closer together. It’s not unusual for Richie to wrap himself around Eddie at night, but it’s always in the middle of their slumbers, not beforehand. This feels so much more intentional, not just Richie’s half-asleep mind reaching out and grabbing at him unconsciously.

Eddie forces his body to relax, following the deep breathing of Richie’s chest against his back. If being so close is what Richie needs to calm down tonight, then Eddie will be there for him. No matter how much his heart twists and aches knowing that he’ll never be able to have this the way he wants it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i think at this point we all know i take forever to update (but i do update!!!) LRGNLRNG so! but hopefully i will see you soon-ish because i p much already have one section done because i moved one from this chap to february.  
also! we are at the halfway point omg... the last two chapters i'm planning on doing a double update since the last one is an epilogue.... truly wild y'all   
per usual you can find me on tumblr @ mikeshanlon as well, i usually try to update on the status of the chapters there if you're curious or just wanna talk about stuff!


	6. february

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all! so... wow what a decade the past month since i've last updated has been. i hope y'all are staying safe and healthy and that this chapter lifts your spirits some.  
not sure if i've mentioned it here but after this chapter we've pretty much just got four updates left-- the last two chapters are both sort of 'epilogues' that i'll be posting together. whew! wild!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
i've also uploaded [richie's playlist of music he listens to throughout the fic](https://mikeshanlon.tumblr.com/post/613514895365996544/hes-working-on-the-engine-in-richies-garage) if you wanna give it a listen.  
warnings: i mean like... the usual.... eddie is an anxious repressed dude what can i say! but it's getting better <3

Richie’s emotional late night visit must’ve released a lot of stress for him, because in the weeks following, Eddie notices a shift in his mood. There’s an extra bounce in Richie’s step, the impressions and joking song renditions are at full force, and most of the time, he’s grinning. Half of the time it’s a mischievous one, though other times Eddie watches Richie quietly smiling to himself when the losers are hanging out. Now that he’s not as scared about being forgotten, Richie seems to be enjoying their time together at a less reckless pace. Of course, he still dominates conversations at annoyingly loud volumes and demands attention with his dramatic stories and gestures, but there isn’t quite as much of that manic desperation to hold onto the moment anymore.

The thing that Eddie really gets stuck on is that he keeps catching Richie smiling at _him_. It’s not always a wide beaming one, but sometimes shy smiles with shining eyes. At first, Eddie was sure it was another case of him projecting, considering how often he’s been staring at Richie lately (or probably, for a long time before he realized he was doing it). But when they’re in class, or at Bill’s, or in his own room, he keeps catching Richie out of the corner of his eye, a smile playing on his lips as he looks at Eddie.

Eddie’s usually not even doing anything interesting— he’ll be working on school shit or listening to Ben explain some obscure and complicated subject he’s interested in. But even if he’s doing nothing, Richie’s looking, at least until Eddie notices him and then he turns away. Though, a few times, like the other day, Richie doesn’t even care that Eddie catches him staring. He just keeps looking for a moment and then continues with whatever he was doing, as if it isn’t super fucking weird for him to be doing that.

Eddie, on the other hand, is still grappling with his feelings for Richie. As he grows more accustomed to the knowledge that he _does_ like him, more than a fleeting crush (way more, in fact), it becomes less of a constant source of self-hatred. He’s aware of the way he feels, but it’s not so much blaring sirens anymore, and instead background music. Eddie will let himself experience the swell of emotions he gets when Richie compliments him, or the pull on his stomach when the light hits him just right. His mind will drift away during boring classes to cherished memories of roaring laughter and reassuring touches, and even to memories that aren’t really his. Some sort of alternate dimension where Eddie gets to be with Richie, and when he comes in through Eddie’s window, he kisses him hello, or they hold hands as they drive around Derry. Memories he wishes he could make, but never will.

But, of course, it comes crashing down eventually. Because he’s not relentlessly countering every yearning thought with reminding himself how wrong and fucked up it is to feel that way, the fall back to reality hits a lot harder. A few evenings ago, a night when Richie didn’t come over, he thought of something as simple as pressing a kiss onto Richie’s cheek, but it was like the part of him that feels twisted for liking Richie suddenly became aware of it, and he felt sick. The pull in his stomach turned rotten. He had practically thrown himself into the shower, turning the water scalding hot and scrubbing at himself until his skin was pink and raw, as if he could shed the part of himself that likes boys, that likes Richie.

It manifests itself in different ways too, sometimes he has to turn off all his lights and hide under his covers, away from the world and the imaginary prying eyes judging him for his thoughts and feelings. Yesterday, he had a panic attack in econ, fingers shaking as he became overwhelmed with shame. Richie noticed and took him out in the hall without asking Ms. Robison, anchoring him with a hand wrapped around his wrist and soft whispers of comfort. In some ways, it didn’t really help that Richie, a major factor for the whole reason he was having the anxiety attack in the first place, was right in front of him. Touching him, saying sweet words he didn’t deserve because Richie doesn’t know his true feelings, because Eddie is gross for having them in the first place. But, at the same time, it’s Richie. He knows how to navigate Eddie better than himself, and, though maybe paradoxical considering his exuberant nature, his presence is calming and familiar.

The simultaneous pull and repulsion Eddie feels toward Richie at the moment makes it difficult to be around him, though he’s trying his best not to shut Richie out completely. He doesn’t want a repeat of when he first thought about kissing Richie, but it also hurts to be around him sometimes. To not be able to say that he loves him, to know that they’ll only ever be friends. Still, he made his promise to Richie, a few weeks ago now, that they’d stay together.

He thought he’d get a bit of break from Richie after school today, since usually on Wednesdays Richie and Stan get together and hang out in the late afternoon. It’s a habit that wavered when they were fighting over the past few months but has returned since they made up on New Year’s Eve. But Richie’s car wasn’t working this morning, and now Eddie has to fix it before tomorrow. They had to walk to and from school today (too icy to ride their bikes, especially with how shit Eddie is at riding his), and Eddie would rather not have to trudge along in the freezing snow again.

They’re almost to Richie’s house and Eddie can barely feel his toes, but Richie’s humming to himself, seemingly unperturbed. And, much to Eddie’s annoyance, he’s only wearing a thin long-sleeved shirt with a band tee over it.

“Seriously, I think your lips are like, turning blue and shit,” Eddie squints, continuing his rant about Richie’s inappropriate attire.

“You’re staring at my lips, huh?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, glad that the cold had already made his cheeks rosy. “Shut the fuck up Trashmouth. You should be saving that energy so that your internal organs don’t start shutting down.”

“I’ll be fine Eds, don’t worry! I’ve survived this long.”

“Barely. Seriously, how do you spend your whole life somewhere with freezing winters and not understand that a long-sleeved t-shirt isn’t going to keep you warm?”

Richie shrugs, crossing the sidewalk. “I think that I’m just not made for the cold. My body wants to be where it’s sunny or something.”

“Well your body has shit luck being in Maine.”

“Yeah, cold temperatures aren’t really the main reason why I hate living in this hellhole,” Richie laughs mirthlessly, spinning around so he walks backwards. “But _sooooon,” _he lilts, doing a little shimmy, “We’ll be in New York!”

Eddie sighs, shaking his head, “We don’t even know that we’ll get in.”

“C’mon, if Emerson accepted Bimbo Bill, we’re gonna be fine. Today at lunch he was like ‘Your dad’s a dentist, right? Do vampires have to pay extra dental insurance because of their fangs?’”

“Actually…” Eddie’s face scrunches up in thought.

Richie nods. “Yeah, honestly, I was like, _‘Oh, fuck_. That’s kind of an interesting question.’ But like, you should only come up with that shit if you’re high or something.”

“You know New York City is cold too, right?” Eddie asks as they turn onto Richie’s street.

Richie falls back into step with Eddie. “But do they have racist, misogynistic, homophobic hillbillies prowling around and slamming down shit beer until they find some kid to bully?”

“Maybe not hillbillies, exactly, but the other stuff? Yeah, probably. And they have roaches. And rats. And serial killers. And rent is crazy, plus, there’s _so_ much trash and piss on the streets, and like, _drugs_, not to mention the germs, and—”

Richie puts a hand up to stop Eddie’s ranting. “Slow down Eds. Sure, there may be downsides—”

“I think _murderers_ and meth are a little more than just downsides.”

“Please, it’s not like Derry doesn’t have that shit—I know you’ve walked by that place on Neibolt Street.”

“Yeah, because you dared me to go in,” Eddie scowls. He did not, by the way. Fuck that place.

“Because it’s _boring _here. And that’s the difference. Doesn’t New York have actual shit to do other than swim around in gross water and smoke weed and talk about how much you wanna fucking leave?”

Eddie shrugs as they walk up Richie’s driveway. “Sure.”

“And we’ll have each other, right?” Richie opens the side door to his garage, letting Eddie walk in first, “We can figure out how to deal with the rest together.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Richie flicks on the lights, taking Eddie’s backpack from him. He pauses, worry apparent on his face, forehead wrinkling as he frowns. “It sounds like you’re not really excited about NYU anymore.”

Eddie's hand freezes over the toolbox he uses to fix Richie’s car. He can hear Mike’s voice in his head, telling him to just tell Richie the same thing he told him. That it wasn’t that bad when he told Mike. But Eddie knows that Richie knows him too well and will see the real reason why Eddie thinks he’s going to fucking everything up. So he can’t.

“I’m not—I mean, I’m excited, just… nervous.”

“We’ll be fine, trust me. Have I ever led you astray?” Richie asks.

Eddie presses his lips together in a flat line, taking a deep breath as he opens his mouth. “_Uhhhhh_…”

“Okay, shut up dickhead, let me rephrase. I always have your back, yeah? And we trust each other?”

Eddie nods, even though he’s keeping a huge secret of his own from Richie.

“Then we’ll be fine, seriously,” Richie walks to the door into the house, “I’m gonna put our stuff up in my room. You want something to eat?”

“Sure. And put on something warm while you’re up there!” Eddie calls out as Richie goes inside.

With a deep sigh, Eddie sets the toolbox on the ground by the car before popping the hood to inspect the inner workings.

In addition to all the extra smiles and jokes, Richie’s been especially excited about New York since he broke down in Eddie’s arms. Sure, he’s been talking about going to NYU since Eddie convinced him to apply to college, often bringing up the ‘soon we’ll be in New York’ card (something that simultaneously fills Eddie with warmth and dread). But now that they’ve promised they’ll stay together; Richie’s interest and enthusiasm has skyrocketed. He keeps researching the best boroughs to live in, the coffeeshops he thinks Eddie will like, the unique record stores he wants to visit, or the best flea markets and party spots near campus. Richie’s already planning on trying to smoke a joint at the top of the Statue of Liberty and has a personal goal to pet as many bodega cats as he possibly can.

Of course, being who he is, Eddie has already put a lot of research into New York too, even more so since his first initial decisions over where to apply. And he didn’t expect or want to be the only one making decisions about where they would live, or the places they’d buy their food or what subway trains they’d want to take. But it’s strange to see Richie so… _into _the whole process. Most of the time Richie operates on impulsive whims and goes with the flow. Especially considering that he wasn’t even thinking of going to college just a few months ago, it’s a totally different change of pace. He’s so invested that before taking Eddie out of the classroom when his panic attack started, Richie had been on his phone since the start of class—not an unusual occurrence, but usually he was playing games or texting or some shit, not researching apartments near NYU. 

The trepidation Eddie was feeling about college and New York earlier last month has been growing now that they’ve made their promise, now that Richie’s so happy about it. With the fact that Eddie’s feelings aren’t going away anytime soon, he’s increasingly worried that inevitably they’ll fall apart. That was already terrifying before, but now it feels like even more of betrayal. Eddie doesn’t want to be the one to ruin something good for Richie, something he genuinely cares about.

Richie comes back out into the garage with some snacks and, thankfully, wearing a sweater. Actually, it’s the one Eddie gave him a while ago, before they went out for coffee in the autumnal chill. (It seemed awful then, but now Eddie wishes he could go back, tired of the snow). Eddie’s not even mad he didn’t give it back, even though it’s one of his favorite sweaters. (Though he really doesn’t have any ground to stand on there, considering he’s stolen a good portion of Richie’s wardrobe, despite the fact that it’s so garish). Mostly because, wow. He looks good in it—he did before, but now Eddie allows himself to stare for a moment longer, to acknowledge (to only himself, of course), that he likes way Richie looks in the cozy knit, the reddish orange color reminding him of crisp autumn leaves, or a nice warm fire in the winter.

Maybe it’s mostly that Eddie likes the way Richie looks in something of his.

He wonders if this is how Richie feels when he sees Eddie wearing his clothes. He knows Richie said he looked good in his beanie (because the compliment been playing in his head since the moment it left Richie’s lips), but it’s not like Richie has good taste. Richie probably just tolerates Eddie pilfering away his hoodies like some sort of kleptomaniac because they are friends, because that’s his penance for staying over all the time. Besides, Mike and Bill seem to share clothes pretty often, and that doesn’t mean anything.

Eddie gets to work on Muriel as Richie plants himself on the ice chest, playing music off his phone and chatting away. He hums along, absently listening and making sure to keep his eyes focused on the car and not Richie. If he just concentrates on figuring out what’s wrong, then maybe he won’t be so embarrassingly enamored with Richie.

It works for a bit, Eddie getting so engrossed in his task that he has to shrug off his jacket, even though the garage is bitterly cold. But it gets harder when Richie keeps singing along to songs with pretty romantic lyrics, The Cure’s ethereal pop ballads, among others. There’s a few Eddie recognizes from the car rides, and a couple of them are so catchy he hums along quietly as he tinkers under the hood.

Richie grows silent and Eddie resolve breaks, finally glancing over at the other boy. His brown eyes are wide and bright under his big frames, watching Eddie with his chin propped up on his hand.

“What? Do I have motor oil on my face again?”

Richie shakes his head, a few curls falling into his eyes. “No, just thinking.”

“What is it this time?” Eddie asks, looking for another tool in the red metal box, “A sexy car wash service?”

“No—well, _actually_…” Richie stops when Eddie glares at him, “No, just… Thinking about us.”

Eddie almost drops the wrench in his hands. “Oh?”

“Us, as in, us going to New York. Roaming the midnight streets, getting plastered at parties, the crazy people we’ll meet,” Richie clarifies.

Eddie tries not let the disappointment show on his face. “Getting plastered sounds a lot more like you than me.”

"Maybe so,” Richie shrugs, “But, hey, you remember the other night when I came over but still couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah, you kept waking me up every other hour with your laughter,” Eddie complains.

“Okay, well later, when you were asleep and snoring like a fucking pig—”

“Wow, thank you for that lovely comparison,” Eddie glares, “One that isn’t even true, because seriously, I. Don’t. Snore.”

Richie waves his hand, dismissing Eddie’s statement, “Yeah, yeah, whatever, so I was on Craigslist—”

“No. _No_. Don’t go on fucking _Craigslist _dipshit_—”_

“Can I finish?”

Eddie shuts his mouth, gesturing for Richie to continue.

“So, I found this apartment on there, and it’s probably, definitely haunted by this, like, Italian dude who had tuberculosis. But I was thinking, if we hold a séance and we become bros with him, then maybe we can convince the guy to pay some rent, and then bada bing bada boom, we wouldn’t have to share with another roommate who takes up space in the physical realm, yeah?”

Eddie stares at him blankly before erupting into laughter, shaking his head. “You’re so goddamn stupid, Rich, oh my god.”

“Hey,” Richie says through his own laughter, “I’m just trying to make sure you’re not stressing out about moving there. I wouldn’t want to do it without you—and I promised not to. Like I said, we’ll take care of each other.”

Eddie’s heart twists a bit. The sentiment fills him with warmth, but like most things recently, comes along with the aftershocks of shame and anxiety. Part of the reason Richie’s so pumped to go to NYU is because he’ll be leaving _with Eddie_. He wants to do all of the exploring and enduring stressful mishaps and building a home there _with Eddie. _Richie thinks they’re just two best friends taking on the world, but Eddie loves him. How are they going to live together and figure everything out if Eddie has to hold onto this secret forever? If he can barely keep it together around Richie? His devotion should be exactly what Eddie wants to hear, but it’s not, at least not when Eddie knows his own devotion towards Richie means something else. Eddie feels stupid and guilty and selfish for moving forward with the plan without telling him how he feels. But if he tells Richie, they lose everything they have. The magical bond and friendship and understanding they crafted over years of learning each other.

Richie may be excited about New York, but Eddie’s starting to second guess the whole thing.

\---

Valentine’s Day has always made Eddie feel really fucking weird.

He used to enjoy making little valentines for everyone in elementary school, decorating his ‘mailbox’ and writing an inside joke on Richie, Bill, and Stan’s whenever they were in the same class. But he also knew they really only got valentine’s because their other classmates were forced to (except the couple he has from Beverly, who was always kind to them even before they really became friends). The four of them were losers, and Eddie even remembers getting some addressed to shit like ‘Wheezy’ or, even worse jeers. (Different to, of course, the Eddie Spaghetti’s and Short-stack’s Richie would drop in his mailbox). Oftentimes he couldn’t even enjoy the candies or temporary tattoos or whatever other goodies came with some of the cards because his mom would throw them out, too worried about tampered food or him eating too much sugar. (And god forbid he gives himself a Tinkerbell tramp stamp or something).

As they got older and the culture surrounding Valentine’s became more about romance, Eddie hated it. He didn’t understand Bill looking longingly at Beverly in middle school, debating whether or not to send her a singing telegram all week before finally chickening out, yet still hoping that she would leave a rose in his locker or something. And weaving through couples making out and giving each other bouquets that he used to think fucked with his allergies was annoying as shit. He dreaded walking into school with the pink and red decorations everywhere, the nervous glances of pubescent teens dreaming of someone asking them out.

The thing is, it wasn’t because Eddie believed the day was some capitalistic creation meant to make people buy candy and jewelry or shell out at expensive restaurants. Nor did he think love was stupid or fake (which is pretty obvious now, though he does feel quite stupid for being in love with Richie). It was just… conflicting.

He didn’t really care for all the fanfare and romantic gestures. It was boring and something he wasn’t interested in. Eddie didn’t want to give a girl roses, or chocolates, and he didn’t want a girl to stuff a teddy bear in his locker or buy him a singing telegram (though he did get one once, from Richie, who jumped up from his seat in a joined in to serenade Eddie). Why did everyone care so much? What was the point?

Looking back on it now, his whole attitude really because of the whole _girl_ part of it. Because the other thing he felt on Valentine’s was left out. At the time he found it strange, since he thought he didn’t care. Most of the day he was fine, but there was that pang of jealousy he’d feel as it was winding down and nothing had happened. No anonymous gifts from a secret admirer or someone confessing their feelings right after school let out. He wanted to be loved—by who, he hadn’t known at the time. Now he knows it all too well.

The thing is, being friends with other self-ascribed losers meant most of them had similar woes on the day of love. It varied from year to year and as more people came into their little club, but a good portion of them felt left out. For a long time, Bill was hopelessly pining over Beverly, and then Ben was. Richie would give out joking valentines to people but still call it a big fucking scam, though he hasn’t said that in the past couple years. And Stan was, Eddie thinks, feeling lonely a lot of the time.

So, they started an unofficial tradition in middle school, that every Valentine’s day they’d grab some food at K’s Diner and keep each other company. They’d go over to someone’s house and listen to each other’s wallowing and talk shit. And when they were done with that, they’d watch movies or play video games or whatever kept them distracted from their pathetic realities. Whoever was feeling disillusioned on the holiday was allowed to come, except for Beverly who didn’t know about it, since Bill was moping over her until they were dating, when Ben did (at least, he finally admitted he had a crush on _someone_, who was very obviously Beverly). 

That year, when they were sophomores, was a particularly rough one. Bill and Beverly had just gotten together a month or so prior after the winter formal, and Ben was pretty beaten up about it. Stan had joined them too, which he did from time to time, but he had been grumpier and snippier than usual. Bill and Bev had gone to K’s after the dance, and Bill being the hopeless romantic he is wanted to recreate their first date already. So, when they were waiting to be seated, Bill and Beverly strolled in, just getting their order to go so he could whisk them off somewhere nice (meaning nice for Derry, and somewhere that wasn’t already crowded. Which ended up being the quarry as they’d later find out when Bill went over every single detail afterwards. Yawn). Bill was oblivious to Ben’s disposition and chatted with his arm around Beverly, being all gross and in love. Stan eventually snapped and told him to stop making Beverly wait and just go on their date. That evening had been an absolute mess, and Richie and Eddie had to carefully navigate the clusterfuck spectrum of emotions Ben and Stan were giving out as they hung out at Richie’s afterwards.

Last year wasn’t quite as bad, thankfully. Eddie had stressed about the prospect of Bill and Ben both anguishing over Beverly, but Bill wasn’t beaten up about being dumped (which, Eddie now knows is because he wasn’t dumped at all). He just ate at the diner with them, saying that since it was Mike’s first time joining, he had to welcome him as one of the founders of the tradition. (Which was not part of the whole thing, especially since Stan opted out when Richie asked him if he wanted to come along. Bill was probably lonely and bummed he didn’t have a valentine, not about Beverly in particular). Being ‘welcomed’ by Bill didn’t help Mike’s experience anyways, he left Richie’s early, not seeming to enjoy the negativity surrounding something like love.

Richie and Eddie partook in the tradition every year, though they were never the one’s being all sappy and sad about it. They’d rag on the stupid traditions, laugh at the relationships that were going to end in just a few weeks, and eat conversation hearts until they were sick. It was fun, and Eddie didn’t feel so pathetic when Richie was making him howl with laughter and smile until his cheeks hurt. When they were ordering a monstrous sundae at K’s or making fun at the hilariously awful rom-com they were watching, Eddie forgot that he felt lonely.

But this year, he doesn’t know what’s going to happen. Now that Ben and Beverly are together, _he’s_ certainly not going to join them at the diner. Mike _might_ have someone he’s with, though Eddie has no clue if it’s serious, and either way he doesn’t think Mike would want to come anyways. Eddie has no idea about Bill and Stan’s attitude towards the holiday this year, though Stan isn’t brooding and snappy like he was sophomore year, and Bill’s eyes are at their normal level of looking a little bit sad and loving at the same time.

So… that leaves just Eddie and Richie. Maybe. He doesn’t think Richie has a date or anything, at least he selfishly hopes not. But if it’s just them, would Richie even wanna do it this year? Would _Eddie?_ Being alone with Richie on a day all about love sounds sort of like a fucking nightmare, given his current situation.

Maybe they’ll just silently agree not to do it this year. Eddie will just go home and alternate between being so anguished that he just wants to disappear and become a hermit in the woods, and being so fondly in love that all he can do is imagine what it’d be like if his feelings were reciprocated until he’s lying face down on his floor and back at the anguishing stage.

That all sounds particularly pathetic, but Eddie doesn’t think he can really handle being with Richie today when it means nothing to him. Would he rather be lonely and sulking in his room, or with Richie, now knowing he’s the person Eddie’s been lonely for?

Eddie hopes that Richie’s aversion to confrontation about serious shit will mean all of this goes under the radar. The maybe he wouldn’t even have to decide.

“Just act normal,” Eddie reminds himself as he looks in the mirror and finishes fixing his heather purple sweater, rolling the ends of the sleeves so they don’t hang past his fingers.

Richie’s tell-tale obnoxious and erratic honking breaks through the peaceful morning silence of the suburbs outside his open window, making Eddie jump. It’s so disruptive that he accidentally bumps into the dresser right beside his mirror, knocking over some of the knick-knacks and self-care products he keeps on the surface.

The car horn keeps blaring as Eddie quickly tries to clean up his mess, making him feel even more rushed. At least his mother already left for work, so he doesn’t have to worry about her getting pissed off.

He makes his way to the window, leaning his upper body out into the brisk air and shouts, “Hey, asshole!”

The passenger window of the station wagon slowly rolls down and Richie pokes his head out of it. “Yes, darling?”

“I’ll be down in a minute, stop honking!”

Richie acts like he’s speaking into a ham radio, complete with the crackling sounds, “Roger that, Kaspbrak.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and pushes away from the window frame, back into his room. Immediately, there’s another long irritating honk from the street below.

He sticks his head out again, narrowing his eyes at Richie. “Seriously?! Beep beep Richie!”

Richie mimics the ‘beep beep’ with the beeping of his car horn. He’s very impressed with himself, grinning and waggling his eyebrows. “Get it?”

“Yes, I fucking get it dipshit,” Eddie groans.

“I’m sorry,” Richie apologizes, not sounding like he means it, “I just can’t help myself.”

Eddie sighs, shaking his head and closing the window shut. He gives himself one final once over in the mirror before throwing on a coat, grabbing his backpack off the floor, and racing down the stairs. He snatches up the paper bag with Richie’s breakfast in it that he prepared earlier off the kitchen counter and locks the front door behind him.

“Do you think you could mod Muriel with a sweet novelty horn?” Richie asks as Eddie approaches the car, “So it sounds like ducks quacking or plays a song or some shit?”

Eddie slides into his seat, having to slam the door several times before it actually shuts. “No.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

“…Yes.” 

Richie scoffs. “That’s no way to treat the guy who got up early to bring you coffee.”

“Oh, _fuck yes_,” Eddie gratefully takes the cardboard to go cup from Richie. “Thanks Rich, I needed this.”

He takes the stirrer Richie tucked under the sleeve and lifts the lid of the latte. It smells heavenly, and Eddie already feels more awake. There’s a foam heart floating on the top, a little melted, and Eddie quickly stirs it in. He loves the café Stan works at, but they always tried to do stupid fancy shit like that. Eddie takes a sip, humming approvingly.

“Here, your breakfast,” Eddie passes Richie the paper bag.

Richie rifles through it pulling out the items Eddie packed. “Banana, ew… granola bar, _booooring_, oh shit, Hot Cheetos and chocolate?! Eds, you shouldn’t have!”

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have. I kinda died a bit when I bought those yesterday. That guy that kicked us out was glaring at me the whole time, by the way, but it’s your favorite so—” He watches as Richie unwraps the chocolate bar, taking a huge bite, “Actually, those are supposed to be for your lunch.”

“Shh, let me indulge,” Richie says around the sweet treat, barely swallowing it before he finishes the rest of it off.

So. Maybe they both decided to do something a little special this morning. Otherwise, completely normal.

Richie starts up the car, the oh so familiar intro of _Friday I’m In Love_ playing from the car radio that Eddie spent forever figuring out how to get to work. Eddie instantly smiles, getting ready for Richie’s weekly concert.

He doesn’t change the lyrics for most of the song as they drive through the neighborhood, a rare occurrence for these renditions. Eddie sips at his delicious coffee, bobbing his head to the beat and switching his gaze between the melting snow on the front lawns and Richie enjoying himself as he taps his fingers on the steering wheel. It’s these moments that Eddie loves, when Richie’s wild, infectious energy seeps through the dreary monotony of Derry living and makes the blood in his veins thrum with life. Eddie’s not concerned with what other people are thinking of this, or even the insidious whispers of his subconscious. It’s drowned out by the loud music and the brightness of Richie’s vivacious spirit. Richie is _so much_ that sometimes he becomes everything, the only thing that Eddie can look at or think about.

“_Always take a big bite_, _it’s such a gorgeous sight, to see you eat in the middle of the night,” _Richie beams as he sings to Eddie, nearly veering into the other lane. Eddie takes Richie’s chin in his hands and turns his head to face the road instead of him._ “You can never get enough, enough of this stuff, it’s Valentines day, I’m in loooooooooove!_” Richie belts out joyously, drumming his hands intensely on the steering wheel.

Eddie tears his eyes away and takes a long gulp of his coffee, the warmth burning his throat slightly.

The song starts over and Eddie moves to change it, but Richie swats his hand away.

“Um, it’s Friday, Eds,” Richie says, “It’s Friday, and it’s Valentine’s day. What the hell are you doing?”

Eddie’s brows furrow. “Uh, yeah. I’m aware.” All too aware, unfortunately, but hopefully Richie won’t bring up their sort-of-kinda-anti-Valentine’s-Valentine’s tradition. “I’m changing the song?”

"No, I don’t think you get it. It’s Friday, and it’s the day of love.”

“…So?”

“‘So?’ _‘So?!’_ Jesus. _Sooooooo_, Eds, it means this is _the_ ultimate Friday of being in love. We’re on a fucking _Friday I’m In Love _lockdown, my love. Nothing else for the next twenty-four hours.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, trying to ignore Richie’s joking term of endearment. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No, I have taste,” Richie turns up the volume, dancing a little in his seat, “_Saturdaaaaaaaay wait! Doo-doo-doo-doo-dooo” _he mimics the guitar,_ “And Sunday always comes too late, but Friday never hesitate!” _

It would be nice to be a Friday, Eddie thinks. He’s probably more of a Wednesday.

They listen to the song about four and half times before Richie pulls into the parking lot, honking at loitering freshman holding heart shaped balloons to get out of the way. The lot is already pretty full, but Richie manages to get a spot by Mike’s blue pickup truck near the football field.

Richie continues humming the tune as they stroll through campus, making their way to their lockers. The halls are fully decorated for Valentine’s Day, annoyingly it’s one of the only holidays ASB decorates for so no one can forget it. Obnoxiously red and pink streamers hang from the ceiling, and paper hearts are taped onto each locker with the name of whoever owns it so that people can write notes on them.

Eddie tears his down right away, crumpling the purple paper as he throws it into the back of his locker. He doesn’t want to tempt fate and let people write insults or have Richie draw dicks all over it.

(And otherwise, it’d be embarrassing to see it up there at the end of the day, empty).

“You think I should write something on Ms. Robison’s outside the staff lounge?” Richie asks, tossing his battered book for English into his locker, “Y’know, something like, ‘the price of goods isn’t the only things that’s inflating’.”

Eddie pauses as he pulls out one of his notebooks. “Are you—are you talking about your dick?”

Richie nods, lifting his eyebrows suggestively. “Mhm.”

“Why the fuck is it inflating? Is it, like, a fucking balloon?”

Before Richie can respond, Bill and Stan come walking down the hall.

“M-morning guys,” Bill says, a large smile on his face.

“Bonjour Billiam!” Richie pulls Bill closer before he can walk to his locker, making him stumble a bit on the slippery linoleum. He puts Bill into a headlock and plants a wet, sloppy kiss on his forehead. Stan whacks Richie’s arm with his AP Calc textbook, freeing Bill.

“Knock it off.”

“What, jealous? Plenty o’ smooches to go around,” Richie goes to kiss Stan’s cheek, but Stan blocks him with his book. “Ah, AP Calculus, always a cockblock.”

Bill laughs, shaking his head. “What’s up with you, Richie? Feeling… _frustrated_?”

“No, asshole, it’s Valentine’s, and I’m showing my pals I love them. Y’know, Beverly says that the stigma against male platonic affection is fucked up. You guys are being, like, very toxic right now.”

Stan rolls his eyes, “So, why aren’t you trying to kiss Eddie then?”

Eddie freezes, gripping the door of his locker until the metal digs into his palms.

“Uh,” Richie glances at Eddie and fixes his glasses, “Because he hates germs, right Eds?”

Unable to speak, Eddie nods quickly, closing his slightly open mouth and focusing on putting the rest of his shit in his locker.

Stan raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything else, instead moving to open his locker. When he does, there’s a small bouquet of handpicked flowers and bag of fresh free trade organic coffee beans. Hilariously, there’s a small cheesy owl plush holding a paper heart that says, ‘owl be yours’.

“When—? I mean…” He snorts, looking at Bill who’s got a smug look on his face. Stan shakes his head in disbelief and smiles. “So stupid.”

Bill grins, and Eddie doesn’t know what the hell just happened. It takes a little longer for Bill to unlock his own, something he often struggles with as he constantly forgets his code. Stan leans close to Bill’s ear and whispers something, probably Bill’s combination. His hand stills and he stares at Stan for a second before flipping him off, though there doesn’t seem to be any heat behind it, seeing as he’s grinning even wider now.

Interestingly, Bill has some hand-picked flowers in his locker too, tied with the same simple twine. There’s a letter as well with his name on it in gorgeous calligraphy, sealed with a deep red wax, a heart at its center.

So, it seems that both Bill and Stan have secret admirers this Valentine’s. They’re probably not going to join the pathetic mope fest at K’s Diner afterschool. The odds of having to confront a situation where it could just be him and Richie are looking higher, but Eddie’s still holding out hope that Richie won’t mention it. Or maybe Mike will be free, especially now that there’s no football practice to keep him afterschool.

“Oh shit!” Richie exclaims, pushing himself off the lockers and walking towards them, “A letter? Benny’s got competish.”

“Please learn how to form complete words, I’m begging you,” Stan says, no sense of pleading or, really, any other emotion in his voice.

“Well, why don’t I learn from Bill’s romantic pen pal here?” Richie says it like some inside joke as he tries to snatch the letter out of Bill’s hands, but Bill twists out of his reach.

He swats at Richie, warding him away. “S-seriously, Rich, don’t be an ass.”

“Okay, okay! I get it. There’s some _freaaaaky _stuff in there, huh?” he says, waggling his brows at Stan.

“No—” Stan snaps, and then closes his mouth, glancing at the other people walking down the halls. “I mean, I doubt it. Y-you think anyone’s trying to get ‘freaky’ with Bill?”

Bill’s brows furrow deeply. “Um, _yeah_? Wh-what the hell, Stan? L-last ni—”

“Bill.” Stan looks at him pointedly.

“_Ooooh_. Yeah,” Bill nods, not so discreetly giving Stan a thumbs up. His voice goes all weird and way too loud as he continues to speak. “_Ha ha_, very fu-funny Stanley. You really got m-me good!”

Eddie exchanges a look with Richie. _What the fuck is that all about?_

The first bell rings before Eddie can ask anything, but he’s okay with it if it means being away from Richie until lunch, since they don’t have econ today.

But shit, it’s insufferable. The cards and the chocolates on people’s desks, the singing telegrams with the tone-deaf choir kids who are too into their performances to notice how flat they are. And then there’s everyone gushing over what their friend’s boyfriends or girlfriends got them or telling each other that they heard from someone who got told by somebody else that their crush _might_ do some big gesture during lunch.

As the day drags on, Eddie is fucking tired of it all. And it’s not like he thinks love is bullshit now, at least in the grand scheme of things. But right now, this situation he’s in? It’s bullshit. It’s fucking bullshit that all these people get to be so happily in love or get excited over prospective romance, and Eddie’s stuck with feeling like a piece of shit because of who he loves.

Maybe it’s kind of a shitty thing to think, but he can’t help but feel frustrated as the girls at his AP Stats table complain that the guys they’re ‘talking to’ haven’t done anything so far. Sure, that sucks or whatever. But at least they’re ‘talking to’ them. At least they have the luxury of complaining about it out loud, of not hating themselves for even thinking of wanting that. At least they have that option, of being able to receive romantic gifts or have a cute date afterschool or whatever.

Because Eddie can’t. He can’t even fathom being able to be that person who does the whole public declaration of love thing, even beyond just the normal chance of rejection. Even more than the fear of that rejection coming from your best friend and ruining everything. Because on top of that he has to deal with the fact that he likes another boy. People in Derry wouldn’t be okay with that shit, let alone the disgust and betrayal Richie would likely feel.

And probably worst of all, Eddie doesn’t even have anyone to talk about this with. Not when the person he would trust most in the world with this type of shit is the person he’s hiding his feelings for.

Lunch is… something. Richie pilfers five of the special heart shaped sugar cookies with red sprinkles from the line, and somehow barters two more going around the lunch tables. One for all of the losers and another for himself, but Mike says he already got some baked goods in his locker (apparently, he too has a secret admirer). Richie ends up breaking the extra one in half (ish) and sharing with Eddie.

Ben and Beverly are not as bad and overly affectionate as Richie made them out to be when they first got together last month, though they are a little more… mushy today. Eddie’s sitting next to them, trying to avert his gaze when Beverly puts her hand on his leg, or leans into him. Even when Ben’s not pressing his lips to her to the top of her fiery head or slinging his arm around her, he’s looking at her with fond green eyes.

“So, did ya write another poem for your V-day gift, Willy Shakes?” Richie asks Ben, shoveling the hot cheetos Eddie gave him into his mouth. Beverly reaches over the table and sneaks some for herself until Richie notices and snatches the bag back. “That was a _gift_, Bev.”

Ben shifts in his spot and shrugs. “No, I thought I’d do something different for today. Special. I can’t do the same thing over and over again, you know?”

“Ah, I see. You couldn’t come up with anything.”

Ben narrows his eyes at Richie and scoffs. “No, shut up.”

Judging from his red cheeks and the embarrassed glance he sends to Beverly, Richie’s probably not wrong. Normally, Eddie would defend Ben, say something about Richie’s lack of poeticism, but he knows that’s not true. Richie’s not known for his classy eloquence, but Eddie remembers the haiku in the grocery store too well.

“Hey, inspiration can be h-hard to come b-b-by,” Bill backs up Ben as he takes a segment from Stan’s clementine.

**“**So,” Bev turns to Richie, a mischievous smile on her face, “What plans do _you_ have for today then?”

Richie rolls his eyes at her and glances quickly at Eddie before shrugging. “No clue.”

He still doesn’t bring the Valentine’s tradition up when he walks Eddie to his next class when lunch ends, and when they stop by their lockers after school, he fills Eddie in on all of Gretta Keene’s relationship drama of the day since they’re in the same English class. 

And when they’re saying bye to Stan, Bill, and Mike across the hall, making plans for this weekend, Richie doesn’t say anything about it either. Not even when he jokes about them possibly meeting up with their “secret admirers” tonight. (Richie puts them in air quotes as he says it, and Eddie’s not sure Richie knows how to use air quotes correctly. They really don’t have any idea who left the gifts in their lockers. At least, the three of them don’t say anything, or even offer a guess).

Eddie sighs in relief as they walk down the halls, a triumphant smile on his face. He made it. He made it through the day without having a complete meltdown and without having to decide what to do about their usual Valentine’s day plans.

“What’s got you so happy?” Richie asks, bumping his shoulder as they open one of the side doors that leads to the football field.

Eddie bites down on his smile, shrugging. “Nothing.”

“So,” Richie slides down the metal railing of the steps and hops off, “What are you thinking you’re gonna order at K’s? I’m not sure if I wanna go breakfast or burgers, but either way, I’m getting one of their bomb ass milkshakes.”

Eddie almost trips on the last step, Richie catching him before he completely faceplants.

Fuck.

“Uh,” Eddie falters, adjusting his backpack and gripping the straps tightly. “I thought we weren’t doing it this year.”

Richie’s brows furrow. “What? _Of course_ we’re doing it, Eds. It’s our thing.”

“I just—I mean, the others are busy this year, or at least not, y’know, Valentine-less. We don’t need to like, make a big deal about it or whatever. Isn’t it kinda lame for us to be there by ourselves?”

‘Isn’t it kinda gay?’, is what he’s really thinking. Two boys eating at K’s on Valentine’s day looks like a date. Of course, he is. Gay, that is, and even more than that he’s interested in Richie, but it’s not like he wants other people thinking that. And he doesn’t want people wrongly thinking of that of Richie either.

Richie walks in front of a car pulling out of its space without looking, narrowly avoiding being backed into. The other student honks angrily, but Richie doesn’t seem to notice. Eddie quickly apologizes, having to jog a bit to catch up with Richie, mostly to make sure in his distracted state he doesn’t almost get hit again.

“Eddie, I thought you were the one who wants to hold onto the way we are as long as possible. This is the last time we get a chance to eat at K’s on V-Day. The front row seat to all the drama, the tinny old love ballads coming from their shitty speaker system, _orgasmic _milkshakes—”

“Okay, ew,” Eddie shakes his head, laughing as he opens the passenger door to Richie’s car.

“Point is, other losers or not, it’s an experience,” Richie says, getting in and tossing his backpack in the backseat. “And what exactly would you be doing otherwise? Staring at your ceiling? Isn’t _that_ kinda lame?”

Eddie sighs deeply through his nose. On one hand, Richie’s right. He was planning on finally indulging himself in the melodramatic melancholy Bill used to exhibit on this day, stealing his mom’s candy stash and lounging around while blasting heartbreaking pop songs. Putting on a face mask would probably be the height of his night. A fun afternoon hanging with Richie sounds like a much better option.

Except it feels so… _date like_. Even though Richie obviously doesn’t realize this or intends it to be. (And why would he even think of that? He’s not the one who’s in love with his best friend and overthinking every single possible implication of everything he does or thinks about). Going seems like a stupid idea when Eddie might snap and confess or, maybe even worse, enjoy himself too much. Could he handle being alone with Richie with hearts and couples and songs about soulmates everywhere they turn?

That pull that makes him want to be closer to Richie wins out over his logic. Because, unfortunately, it’s a lot stronger these days. It’s selfish—taking any opportunity to be with Richie without telling him the truth. But Eddie supposes that’s just who he is now. A selfish fucking coward.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

Richie grins, shutting his door and starting up the engine.

“_Monday you can hold your head, Tuesday, Wednesday stay in bed, or Thursday watch the walls instead, it’s Friday, I’m in love,” _Robert Smith croons through the stereo as they pull out the parking lot.

\---

Per usual for February in Maine, it’s fucking cold, but the sun is trying to peek through the grey clouds today, creating a strange backdrop for their afternoon. One moment, Richie is cast in dark shadows, and the next he’s awash with a bright spotlight.

K’s is busy, unsurprising since there’s only so much to do in Derry. They park across the street, not trusting Richie to navigate the small, crowded parking lot carefully. Richie whistles the guitar melody of the song as they cross the street, dramatically swinging open the front door and letting Eddie walk in.

The diner is old, like most things in Derry. It’s been here since the 70’s, funky patterned red wallpaper plastered everywhere, some of it peeling off and water damaged. Also, like most things in Derry, it’s pretty small. All the booths are against one wall, just a small enough gap between them and the front counter for people to get by if there’s an extra chair pulled up. Their orange-yellow vinyl cushions have cracks in them, worn down from so much use. Barstools of the same color are bolted on the floor by the front counter, wobbly and uncomfortable to sit on. But they spin, which is sort of fun. There’s only one U-shaped booth in the back for big groups, usually used after football games or whenever the losers decide to grab a bite there and it’s empty. The rest are smaller, fitting two or four people, though the losers have done seven when it’s crowded, smushing close together and grabbing a chair. It wasn’t a good time, especially for Eddie, who due to his smaller stature was sandwiched between the wall and Richie’s bony elbows.

Most of the time, you can take whatever booth is free, but since it’s busy the staff is making sure everything’s a little more organized to help with the chaos. There’s a couple in front of them waiting to be seated, Peter Gordon and whatever girl he’s dating that month.

“Should we just get some shit to go?” Eddie suggests. Maybe then they can avoid looking like they’re _together_ together. And Eddie can avoid having to sit across from Richie and look right at him. It’s easier, when they’re just side by side.

"What? No, let’s get a booth, that’s part of the tradition,” Richie says, sticking his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket, “Besides, it’s scientifically proven the milkshakes are better in the cold glasses than the to go cups.”

“Is that _really_ scientific?”

“Yes, tested many times by me and my munchies.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, partially at Richie’s juvenile behavior but more so in frustration, his attempt to make this a little easier for himself thwarted. He taps his Converse against the tiled floor as they wait, feeling awkward for taking up space and standing there with nothing to say. Everyone in here must be judging them. If not for being losers without a date, then thinking that they’re a couple or something. Peter Gordon looks over his shoulder and makes eye contact with Eddie before facing forward again. And shit, Peter’s sort of an asshole, and he gets on alright with Bowers and them, and he’s probably like, texting the whole entire school that him and Richie are each other’s Valentine’s—

Richie nudges Eddie and tilts his phone to show him a video, a lame punchline that only elicits a small snort out of Eddie due to the sheer stupidity of it. But it distracts him from his thought, even just for a moment. When he looks up, no one is looking at them. All of them fully focused on their own food and dates (not that the two of them are on a date, of course). Eddie lets himself breathe. This is okay. This is normal! Him and Richie do this all the time, so why would anyone think anything of it? Why should he?

Peter and his girlfriend are seated at the front counter, and a minute or two later one of the servers guides them to the booth all the way at the end, near the bathrooms.

“Ah, truly the finest seats in this establishment, greatest of thanks, good lady,” Richie exclaims in his vaguely British accent. The server sends them a strange look as she hands them their menus and quickly leaves to take other orders. Eddie sort recognizes her from the hallways of Derry High, she must’ve graduated a couple years ago and, like most people, didn’t get out of this stupid town.

"So, you decided what you want?” Eddie asks as he settles into the booth and strips off his coat. He’ll order what he usually gets—a club sandwich, fries, and a vanilla shake.

Richie thumbs through the menu, fingers tapping on the table as he looks over it. “Do you think we should try ‘K’s Killer Challenge’?”

Eddie makes a face, nose scrunching up in disgust. ‘K’s Killer Challenge’ was on the back of the menu, daring patrons to eat a five-pound burger in twenty minutes. If they’re successful they get a free month’s worth of food from the diner. Eddie doesn’t see the point of doing it for free meals. Wouldn’t you be sick of eating there after that? The last person who attempted it was Belch Huggins—it didn’t end very well.

“I don’t think taking care of you while you throw up is part of the tradition.”

“Yeah, good point,” Richie nods, “I’ll just get a regular burger then. Or maybe I should get a hot dog… Y’know, prepare my stomach for the street wieners I’ll be chowing down in New York.” 

Eddie gags. “Okay, beep beep. Don’t fucking say it like that, Trashmouth. And anyways, I’m not trusting lukewarm processed meat from a random cart on the sidewalk where it mixes with all the trash and pollution.”

Richie laughs as he scans the page dedicated to milkshakes, “Whatever you say. But one day, you may feel some deep, dark primal compulsion eat them.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, tracing the retro orange flowers on the laminate tabletop and Richie finishes deciding what he wants. When the waitress warily approaches their table, Richie ends up ordering everything in the most longwinded and confusing way. Eddie cuts him off and tells her what he’s actually ordering, but it kills him a bit inside to say the monstrosity that is the peanut butter chocolate milkshake with caramel drizzle and chocolate bits Richie orders.

“That’s a fucking cavity in a frosted glass,” Eddie shakes his head, handing their waitress the menus and saying thanks before continuing his judgement. “I don’t know how you have a dentist for a dad and then order shit like that.”

Richie shrugs, folding his arms across the table. “_Carpe diem_, Eds.”

“Your heart is going to seize up first, dumbass.”

The pair chat about their weekend plans as they wait for their food—Richie and Beverly might go to a kickback with some kids in her art class tomorrow and he invites Eddie to come along. Other than Eddie’s disdain for parties, and the fact that he’s pretty sure they’re super weird (like… _art kids_. The horror), he’s trying not to piss off his mom right now. Not because he feels bad, but because she might go to a book signing with her book club out of town in a couple weeks. If he’s good, she’ll let him stay behind and be alone for the night. Eddie knows she’s only thinking about allowing it because she thinks he’ll freak out and hate being alone and decide to stay home for college. Which is dumb, but she’s not exactly rational, and he’s not exactly going to tell her that he can barely stand to live with her anymore because of her abuse and general vitriol for everything he is. Not if it means he gets even a fraction of time away from her before he can truly leave in a few months.

He can probably make it to the study session the losers planned at Stan’s coffeeshop on Sunday though, and Richie says he’ll swing by to pick him up, even though he doesn’t really care about midterms in a few weeks and doesn’t see the point in studying.

“Who cares, we’ve already applied? As long as I don’t fail, I’ll be fine,” Richie says.

“Somehow your attitude about midterms stresses me out more than the exams themselves.”

Richie places his hand on his heart, “_Awww_, you care about me!”

“No, I think you’re being an idiot—”

"Well, no, shh,” Richie puts his hands up to stop Eddie, “If it stresses you out so much, let’s just change the subject, yeah? This is supposed to be a fun afternoon.”

Eddie looks at him with a skeptical gaze, eyes thin. “…_Sure_.”

“Okay, so, V-Day tradition: what’s your dream date and what’s the worst possible thing you can imagine?” Richie asks, fiddling with the saltshaker and passing it back and forth across the table between his hands.

"When the fuck did we ever talk about that?”

Richie shrugs, spinning the shaker, “Well, Bill would always talk about what date he’d love to take Beverly on, and Ben would always say those were awful ideas because he was jealous. And Stan would be all, ‘you two are so over the top, I’d just want something simple’, even though he’d end up saying something way too romantic. Now that there’s a lack of unrequited lovers lamenting and daydreaming at this table, we’ll just have to fill in this year.”

Eddie _really_ does not want to talk about romantic fantasies with Richie. That was part of the safety of the tradition—if there was any talk of romance, Eddie could hide behind judgmental comments and laughing at shitty romcoms, or let the others talk. The prospect of talking about dates and the ‘perfect person’ was already scary and uncomfortable enough before Eddie realized who he liked. Now it’s especially daunting, only him and Richie sitting across from each other. How much can he handle listening to Richie’s dream date with his dream girl, knowing he’ll never be that? With the crooning doo-wop playing in the background and his ever-weakening resolve, it’s probably not very much.

“Or, we could just… not?”

“Nope, that’s boring. So, your hypothetical worst date?” Richie asks, sliding the saltshaker towards Eddie.

Eddie catches it just before it topples over the edge. “I don’t know, what date would you take someone on? That would give me a pretty good idea,” he quips, sending the saltshaker back.

“_Ha-ha_, very funny,” Richie says, though there’s a quick flash of hurt that passes over his face that reveals he’s actually somewhat offended. Eddie feels bad, but any chance to veer Richie away from the truth is something he’ll take. “My worst date is one without your mom.”

“Hilarious,” Eddie deadpans.

Richie slides the shaker back to him, “Your turn again. Best date.”

Eddie feels his lungs deflate. “No,” Eddie passes it back a little too hard, the shaker almost falling over and spilling the salt everywhere, “I already went first.”

“With a stupid non-answer, but, okay,” Richie retorts, “Firstly, the perfect date needs an immaculate playlist. Which means they have to fuck with my music because, of course, my playlists are unparalleled and really the only option.”

“We’ve listened to the same song all day.”

“Yeah, and it’s a damn good song,” Richie says, and before Eddie can gripe, he continues, “Don’t say it isn’t, because I know you only pretend to hate it. And we gotta do something fun, no basic shit. See where the evening takes us. Like, a concert, or exploring town, or trying something totally new and different. Lots of dicking around—in every sense of the word,” he raises his brows suggestively and places the shaker in front of Eddie. Checkmate.

Eddie stares at it, hoping that it’ll provide him with an answer that isn’t too revealing. He goes for something safe, something boring. “Uh, I guess a date at the movies would be nice.”

“What? Bullshit!”

“You can’t call bullshit on _my_ ideal date!” Eddie argues.

“Well I am, because it is! That’s so fucking boring. You really wanna spend two hours sitting in a dark room with someone and not even talk?” Richie asks, “I don’t even think you could be quiet. You’re always asking questions and shit; you’d get kicked out before act two.”

Eddie shrugs, “I could be quiet.”

“Every single movie we watched together—which is a lot, you’ve talked through the whole thing.”

"So have you,” Eddie points out.

“Well, I’m me,” Richie says as an explanation, which it honestly is, “What if they think that shit’s annoying? What if they want to see some lame ass blockbuster?”

“I could be quiet,” Eddie repeats, “It’s just a lot more fun talking and making jokes with you when we watch shit.”

Richie fixes his glasses. “Oh. Well, I mean, that’s me. Not whoever your date is, right?”

Eddie’s chest fills with dread, and fuck, can their food get here already so Richie can forget about this whole conversation?

“Yeah, I guess,” Eddie says, staring down at his lap and messing with the stray pieces of string on the hem of his purple sweater.

“I mean, not every date is going to be so funny and charming and sexy as me. Or like… _get_ you that way. So what would wanna do?”

Would it be socially acceptable for Eddie to just slide under the table and run away?

“I guess…” Eddie starts, sighing as he looks for something to say. “As long as I’m with someone that I like and feel comfortable with, then I don’t really care what we’re doing. We could be getting kicked out of the movies or sitting at the park or even just buying groceries or some shit and I’d have a good time, because it’s them. And they… make me feel good.”

“Oh,” Richie says after a moment, his voice soft and surprised.

Their eyes meet, two pairs of brown eyes inquisitive and hopeful and scared all at the same time. Eddie feels a familiar charge build between them, the one he felt several weeks ago when they promised that they’ll stay together. And it feels so good, but it’s fucking terrifying, and Eddie needs to break it before he does something stupid.

He quickly sends the saltshaker back to Richie, the motion jerky and violent. Richie was not expecting it, too focused in whatever the fuck was happening between them just then and jumps in his seat. His brain barely registers what’s happening and manages to catch it as it veers off to the side.

As he fumbles with it, the glass almost slipping through his fingers and crashing to the floor, their waitress comes with their food. She watches for a moment, unamused and confused at the situation she just walked up to. Eddie does not blame her judging blue eyes boring into them.

Richie sets the shaker on the table and folds his hands together on the surface before turning to her, putting on a smile and trying to seem polite, a façade that fools just about no one. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she says unenthusiastically, her own smile just as unconvincing.

“Hey,” Eddie adds awkwardly.

Her eyes flit to him, narrowing for just a moment. “I have your food, if you’re ready to eat. Or do you need some more time?”

“Yes, we’d love our food, thanks.”

She rolls her eyes almost imperceptibly and sets down their food, Richie making a mocking face at Eddie’s politeness as she does.

“Will that be all?” She asks in a way that screams she really doesn’t want to do anything else for them.

Richie seems like he’s gonna say something stupid or offensive (or both), so Eddie cuts him off.

“We’re good, thank you!”

“Yes, send my compliments to the chef!” Richie adds, but she’s already walked away and pretends not to hear him, despite the diner’s small size. “Jesus, seems like _someone_ doesn’t have a valentine, amirite?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says as Richie starts to reach for his food, “Us.”

Richie pauses, his hands hovering over his fries. “Right, yup. Hence the whole anti-valentines at K’s thing.”

Eddie’s brows furrow deeply, confused at Richie’s odd behavior. He’s the one who proposed to uphold their tradition in the first place. But Eddie doesn’t want to draw any more attention to the Valentine’s aspect of it all, so he comments on something else.

“‘Hence’?”

“I don’t know, it’s like, hot in here. My brain’s melting and shit,” Richie says, exasperated. Eddie supposes its sort of stuffy and crowded, though K’s has shitty insulation and isn’t that much warmer than the remaining winter chill outside.

Richie tugs off his denim jacket, tossing it in the booth beside him. His shirt had been hidden under the jacket for most of the day, but now Eddie sees it in its full glory. Or, more accurate, atrocity. It’s a short sleeve, bowling style shirt, way too big for Richie’s slender frame. The fabric is tie-dyed with bright neon magenta and cherry red, and it’s such an eye sore that Eddie’s pretty sure he’s going to get a migraine soon.

“No, put your jacket back on,” Eddie shakes his head, chewing on one of his fries, “That’s fucking hideous.”

Richie scoffs, offended. “No it’s not! I made it myself, when Bev was in her tie-dying phase a couple summers ago.”

“It looks like someone exploded all over the front of your shirt.”

“It’s fashion,” Richie disagrees, and then goes in for a bite of his burger.

Eddie shakes his head, taking a sip of his delicious, creamy vanilla shake. “On what planet?”

“Whatever fucking weirdo goblin planet you came from,” Richie says, bringing his own milkshake closer, the mixture so thick that it takes a long, forceful sip for it to get through the straw, “And also, you’re always ragging on my _exquisite_ taste, but how much better are you?”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Eddie before taking a small bite of his sandwich.

“I mean, you dress like some geriatric grandpa that got shrunk and like, and de-aged into some cherub faced teenager,” Richie jokes.

“Excuse me?!” Eddie squawks, throwing a small handful of fries at Richie. He instantly regrets the action once he realizes he sacrificed some of his food only for most of them to fall short of Richie’s face. (The singular one that bounces off the rim of his glasses is quite satisfying, though).

Richie laughs at Eddie’s indignation, throwing his hands up to ward off anymore french fries, “I mean, like, I think it’s in a super fucking cute way, but it’s true!”

The cute comment disarms Eddie, making his stupid lovesick brain go all dumb and mushy. He clears his throat awkwardly, “Fuck off, Rich.”

It doesn’t seem like Richie even realized what he said, or the effect it had on Eddie, and he just continues eating. Thank fuck for Richie’s tendency to be completely unaware about what others think about what he says.

For a minute or two they eat in relative silence, Eddie chewing slowly as Richie devours his burger. Richie keeps tapping and swaying his feet along to the retro love songs, and he keeps on accidentally kicking Eddie’s legs. Eddie kicks back after the sixth time, shooing his feet away. Richie grins, tapping his feet against Eddie’s leg again, and the back and forth continues until Eddie realizes they’re playing a weirdly aggressive form of footsie under the table, and he’s pretty sure a small purple bruise or two will be blooming on his legs by this evening. Embarrassed, Eddie pulls his feet away, sitting cross legged on the vinyl seat. Richie frowns slightly but shrugs and resumes his meal.

Despite still having some fries on his plate, Richie leans forward and snatches some of Eddie’s, and dips them into his shake.

“Okay, first of all, don’t steal my fries, asshat. And seriously, are you trying to get me to leave right now? That’s disgusting,” Eddie grimaces.

The act is so disturbing that he can barely focus on being upset that Richie stole his fries to do it. Though truthfully, they’re always pilfering a bit of each other’s food anyways, so he’s not too mad about it. But he can’t quite drop the performance of getting pissed off by Richie being annoying, not when it’s their routine, not when everything else about this afternoon screams ‘sweet teenage Valentine’s date’. Eddie has to put some walls up so this feels normal. So everyone else thinks it’s normal too.

“It’s _sublime_, Spaghedward. Try it, really! The salt of the hot—well sort of hot, they’re starting to get cold now—_pommes frites_, the ultra sweetness of the creamy ice-cream. Truly a wonderfully balanced flavor profile.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the people who care about flavor profiles really think french fries and milkshakes from a diner in Nowhereville, Maine are the height of food,” Eddie quips, though he does enjoy the fry he takes a bite out of after he dips it in some ketchup. “Anyways, you have horrible taste, I don’t trust your opinion when it comes to food.”

Richie lets out an offended noise. “_Me?_ You just dipped your fries in _ketchup_. _That_ shit is disgusting.”

“It’s a perfectly normal and well-loved condiment. You’re the one who drank half a bottle of pure lime juice,” Eddie points out.

“Okay, only because I was bored and trying to, like, I dunno, make you look at me,” Richie defends himself.

Caught up in the energy of their rapid back and forth, Eddie almost says Richie doesn’t have to do anything to make Eddie look, because he already is. Thankfully, the over-thinking part of his brain interrupts him and wonders why the fuck Richie would be wanting Eddie to look at him in the first place. Probably just because Richie’s always wanting attention, with his stupid reckless behavior and jokes.

“Fine, I’ll try it,” Eddie says, shutting off that train of thought. “But I’m not contaminating my own milkshake.”

He pulls Richie’s shake closer with no protest from Richie and gingerly dips one of the fries in.

“You gotta like, get a shit ton.”

Eddie looks up at him warily but does as instructed. Even though Richie’s shake is way too extravagant and rich (Eddie can hear Richie’s loud laughter at his word choice in his head) for his taste, it’s actually sort of delicious. Maybe not some gourmet flavor profile or whatever the fuck, but also Eddie’s a teenage boy who eats hot pockets when he gets home, so it’s not like he has refined taste.

“So?”

Eddie finishes chewing, nodding in approval. “Yeah, it’s good.”

Richie claps triumphantly. “Told ya! I bet it’d even be good with your boring ass vanilla shake.”

“Vanilla is not boring. I get it every time.”

Richie stares at him and puts his hands up, gesturing that Eddie proved his point.

“No, okay, _you_ try,” Eddie shoves the frosted glass towards Richie, “And I’ll watch you eat your fucking words.”

“Wow, not gonna lie, this overly intense trash talk is doing things to me. Quick, tell me I’m going to the ninth circle of hell for unironically loving _Crazy Frog_.”

“My intensity is perfectly situationally correct,” Eddie argues, ignoring everything else Richie said. “This is important shit.”

Richie nods seriously. “Yes, yes, of course. I shall treat it with the respect it deserves.”

He starts inspecting the shake, stirring it with the straw and giving it a sniff. “Ah, I do believe I detect pleasant aroma of artificial vanilla and a hint of,” he takes another smell, pondering for a moment. “A wrong opinion?”

“Boo!” Eddie jeers playfully, throwing his napkin at Richie, “Get on with it already.”

Richie wiggles in his seat, cracking his knuckles and shaking out his arms. With a disgustingly loud crack of his neck, he leans forward and take a sip of the shake.

“So, I bet your words don’t taste as good as that milkshake,” Eddie teases.

“Okay, so best ever flavor? Not sure. I like other ones better, and there are still so many to try out there in the world. We’ll have to continue our search out in New York,” Richie suggests, filling Eddie’s stomach with that now oh so familiar of love and trepidation at the thought of their post high school plans. “But boring? No, I’ll give you that. It’s a respectable choice. Classic. Thank you for the free sip, by the way.”

Eddie reaches over and takes his drink back. “Fine, I’ll take that. You’re wrong, but… Who knows, maybe you’ll see the light one day,” he jokes, smiling and taking another sip.

Richie laughs, knowing Eddie is joking (sort of), and picks up one of his fries. “Cheers?”

“Cheers,” Eddie nods, taking one of his own and tapping them against each other before dipping them into their respective shakes. “Oh, _shit_, this is _so_ much better with mine.”

The two of them continue eating, though Richie finishes faster and starts stealing some more fries from Eddie. That strange passive aggressive air between them at the start has dissipated, and now Eddie feels so much more comfortable and carefree. Yeah, they’re arguing, but it’s that lighthearted banter over stupid shit that the two of them do so well. One of the things he loves most about Richie.

It’s another one of those moments where Eddie isn’t even thinking about all the bad shit. Not college, not his mom, not the part of him that hates that he’s gay. He’s just letting himself be. Letting himself exist with someone who makes him happy.

Eddie insists that he pays when they’re finished chatting and eating, even though Richie ate, like, a quarter of his food as well, but it feels like the sort of thing he should do.

“But I’m the one who asked you out—” Richie starts to protest but stops himself. “Nevermind, yeah. Okay.” 

(He probably remembered he’s spent a shit ton of money on weed and that metal rainbow slinky he got last week—which he broke immediately, and decided it was best that Eddie pay).

As they leave K’s, Eddie feels _good_. Like, as happy and silly and free as he did when Richie and Bill got him high, but without the drugs. With his feelings keeping him from fully enjoying his time with Richie, Eddie forgot how fun it is to just be with him. To hear his stupid jokes and eat lunch and argue about inconsequential shit. There’s something about Richie’s energy, the way he makes Eddie feel more vibrant and chaotic and, really, more himself, that he loves.

Eddie tilts his face towards the bit of sun that’s managed to break through the clouds, the glow of golden hour cast along the nearly empty streets. He closes his eyes, little spots of light dancing across the darkness behind his lids. The sun feels nice on his skin, the warmth rare and welcoming after the abysmal chill of winter. It’ll go away in an hour or so once the sun sets, even less if the clouds swallow up the sun again, but right now it’s nice. Everything’s nice.

Opening one brown eye, he squints over at Richie. The other boy smiles and fixes his glasses, looking up at the sky for a moment and then back at Eddie.

“Hey,” Richie says as he shrugs his jacket back on, “I’m gonna pop into Keene’s real quick and buy some cheap ass chocolate.”

“How are you not sick of sugar after that milkshake?”

“It’s for your mom, she’ll be pissed if I don’t get something for her today,” Richie jokes, but Eddie knows it’s for them. Another piece of the Valentine’s tradition. Eddie’s glad that Richie wants to keep hanging out, so that he can hold onto this feeling a little longer.

However, he has no interest in going to Keene’s shop if he can help it, the place so intertwined with his mother and the bullshit meds that it would ruin his mood. Richie seems to get that though, since he said he’d do it himself.

“Okay,” Eddie nods, “I’ll wait by the car.”

Richie salutes him with two fingers and does a little heel-click jump as he makes his way down the sidewalk to Keene’s. Eddie watches him for a moment, the way his bouncy steps shake his curls and the long strides his lanky legs make. Richie looks back at him for a second, sending him a grin when he catches Eddie staring.

As Eddie hops off the curb and crosses the street to Richie’s car, he smiles to himself. Since the car is locked and Richie has the keys, Eddie sits on the hood, leaning back on his palms and swinging his legs.

If everyday in New York was like this, they’ll be just fine.

A few minutes later, Richie jogs up to the car, a plastic bag jostling and rustling around his fingertips.

Eddie slides off the hood. “I thought you just wanted chocolates?”

“You know I can’t say no to a sale on the candy aisle,” Richie unlocks the car. After they both get settled in and wrangle with the shitty seatbelts, he turns to Eddie. “Where to?”

“Let’s go to yours,” Eddie says, “But take the long way.”

Richie nods and turns the key in the ignition a few times, the car finally roaring to life with one more (very intense) try. As the car warms up, _Friday I’m In Love _finishes up where they left it when they got to K’s, right at the very end before starting up again.

Once they’re on the road, Richie glances over at Eddie, a playful smile spreading across his across his features as he sways his head to the music.

“C’mon Eds, I know you wanna sing along…”

Eddie rolls his eyes at Richie, looking away out the window as a smile of his own starts to grow.

“Let yourself be free dude!” Richie rolls the windows down, “It’s just a little love.”

Eddie bites down on his smile, daring a glance over at Richie. The evening sun casts his angular face in patches of shadow and radiant gold, the light highlighting his cheeks bones and the honey brown undertones in his eyes. It sounds silly to think it, since Eddie’s always roasting Richie’s style and has seen him at as his most disgusting teenage boy states, but he looks beautiful in that moment. So ethereal that Eddie wants to say something about it.

But he won’t, so instead he turns up the stereo some more and starts singing along.

“_Monday you can fall apart, Tuesday, Wednesday, break my heart,” _Eddie sings, and Richie woops. Eddie shakes his head and laughs as Richie joins along, even more excitedly than he has been all day, “_Oh, Thursday doesn’t even start, it’s Friday, I’m in love!_”

Richie does stupid dance as they drive down the suburban streets, waking the dead leaves left on the street as they whiz by. The sky turns a soft pink, the clouds like wispy cotton candy floating along. Eddie lets his arm hang out the passenger window, waving along to the music.

He feels Richie grab his hand and pull him back into the moment again, holding their clasped hands over his heart, “_Throwing out your frown and just smiling at the sound, and as sleek as a shriek spinning round and round.” _

Just as Eddie’s about sing the next line, his cell phone starts to ring. He pulls his hand away from Richie and turns off the stereo. Eddie pulls his phone out his back pocket and sighs.

It’s his mom. Of course.

“Hey ma,” Eddie says as he puts the phone up to his ear, looking at Richie. The other boy frowns. “What’s up?”

“What’s _up_ is that you’re still not home, Eddie bear. Where are you?”

Eddie shuts his eyes and throws his head back, looking at the car ceiling. “We agreed I could be out on Fridays.”

“I know what today is, I’m not stupid. Are you with a girl?”

Eddie tries not to laugh. “No, I’m with my friends.”

His mother scoffs. “Your friends? What, like that slut?”

“Don’t call Beverly that, ma,” Eddie warns, sitting back up, “And I’m not with her anyways.”

“Then who are you with?”

Eddie looks at Richie, who keep sending worried glances over at him. “…I’m with Richie.”

“Oh,” she says, clearly unhappy.

“Does she wanna talk to me? Tell her I’m not free for phone sex right now,” Richie quips, and Eddie gestures for him to cut it the fuck out.

He’s pulled back into the conversation as his mother takes a deep breath on the other line. “You know how I feel about him Eddie. The things I hear…He’s not much better than that Marsh girl. I’m worried he’s going to ruin your brain. Make you do things and think things you shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, well, he’s my best friend. That’s not changing,” Eddie snaps. He hears Richie’s breath hitch beside him.

There’s a long silence until her voice comes back, low and harsh.

“Come home right now, Edward.”

Eddie huffs. “Yes, ma.”

“You know I love you, Eddie bear,” she says, the lilt in her voice waiting for her to hear the same.

She doesn’t though. She doesn’t _really _care about him. His mother just wants to shelter him from the world, to keep him smothered in her arms. Eddie glances over at Richie. _He_’s someone who actually cares about Eddie, even if it’s not the same way Eddie cares for him. He’s someone Eddie actually loves.

“Love you too, ma,” Eddie echoes with no emotion, immediately hanging up and throwing his phone on top of his backpack. He lets himself screw his eyes shut and take a few deep breaths through his nose before facing the world again. “I need to go home now.”

Richie sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You sure?”

Eddie nods. “It’s not worth fighting right now. Especially if it takes some sacrifice now to be her good doting boy even for the _chance_ that she goes to her signing in a couple weeks.”

Richie looks disappointed but turns left at the next stop sign towards Eddie’s house. They sit in silence, a cruel contrast to just minutes ago when they were singing passionately and laughing. He hates that his life is like this. That one moment he can be deliriously happy, and the next his mother ruins it all.

Eddie watches the road, waiting for Richie to make a right, but he keeps going straight. He’s still taking the long way home.

“If I could do anything to stop her from being so fucking awful, I would,” Richie breaks the silence, his voice soft but sure. “I hate what she does to you, Eds.”

“It’s whatever,” Eddie shrugs, not wanting to actually talk about it.

Richie shakes his head, gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. “No it’s not. You don’t deserve that shit at all.”

“I’m sorry she hates you,” Eddie says, “I’m sorry that you have to sneak in whenever you wanna see me.”

“I kinda like sneaking in,” Richie shrugs, a mischievous grin growing on his face, “And who cares if she hates me? I’m the one who you promised you’re gonna stay with. I’m the one you’re gonna run off to New York with in a few months, right?”

Eddie’s reminded of the vision he had on the outskirts of town, of him and Richie getting the fuck out of Derry. He thinks of being out late with Richie on the city streets and not having to answer to anyone, only caring about each other.

“Yeah,” he smiles.

Richie slaps the steering wheel excitedly. “Damn right! Fuck you Sonia Kaspbrak!”

Eddie chews the bottom of his lips and decides to be stupid. “Yeah, fuck you!”

A loud laugh leaves Richie’s throat, his eyes crinkling around the edges.

“Hey, when your mom goes to her signing—Ah, ah, no, it’s going to happen,” Richie says as Eddie starts to correct him, “I’m, like, manifesting it or whatever Bev calls it. Anyways, let’s do something, yeah? At yours.”

“That sounds nice,” Eddie agrees. “Maybe we could even dare to go downstairs?”

Richie shrugs, “Whatever you want. I don’t mind hanging out in our room.”

Eddie’s heart stops for a moment, his stomach twisting fondly.

_Our._

He hides his uncontrollable smile with his hand and looks out the window.

Richie pulls up a little way from Eddie’s house, away from Sonia’s eyes, since she’s likely watching from the living room window.

“Well, Happy Valentine’s, Eddie,” Richie says, not bothering to turn off the loud engine in case it doesn’t start again.

“Thanks, today was really fun.”

The two stare at each other, Eddie unable to look away from Richie’s gaze.

“Um, I should go,” Eddie clears his throat after some time, opening the passenger door and starting to get out.

“Wait—” Richie says, grabbing his wrist.

Eddie brows draw together, “What?”

Richie looks at him, pupils wide as he searches Eddie’s face. He chews on his lip as his eyes dart down to Eddie’s own, and lets out a deep breath from his nose. Eddie wants to look away, needs to, but he can’t. It’s not like Richie’s holding his wrist tightly, but there’s a growing tension in the air that he’s afraid to break. Because then the moment would be over. Because the other option is not something he’s allowed to do.

His brown eyes hold that familiar look behind his large glasses, searching for something, always searching. Full of something Eddie doesn’t understand but wants to. He watches as Richie’s licks his lips before they part and he leans a little closer, his hand reaching up to Eddie’s face.

And, _oh shit_. Holy fucking fuck.

Is Richie going to kiss him?

Richie’s cups the side of Eddie’s face, his thumb resting on his cheekbone for a moment. Eddie can barely breathe. One more second like this and he might actually think he needs his inhaler.

He feels Richie brush under the soft sunken skin on his eye and then scoot back. Eddie lets out a sigh. Part relief and part disappointment.

“You, uh, had an eyelash on your face,” Richie says, brushing his hands. “Yup.”

Eddie blinks, trying to regain his composure and let his lungs fill with air again.

“Shouldn’t I—Shouldn’t I make a wish?” He gasps out, trying to for teasing but just sounding embarrassingly breathless.

“Oh,” Richie scratches the back of his neck, “I, um, I could, like, get it off the car floor if you want—”

Eddie puts his hand up to stop him. “Ew, no, I’m good.”

They sit in silence for another few seconds, Richie wiping his hands on his jeans.

“So, uh. Bye Richie!” Eddie says, his voice embarrassing fast and high pitched.

He leaves the car at breakneck speed, slamming the door behind him.

Shit. His backpack.

Eddie turns around and quickly opens the door to grab it, waving awkwardly to Richie and jogging up to his front door.

“Why the fuck would I _wave_?” Eddie whispers to himself.

He says hi to his mom and kisses her wrinkled cheek, but barely registers any of the words she says or his own responses. Biting out an excuse about homework, Eddie bounds up his stairs, needing to be alone for a moment.

He drops his bag at the door and doesn’t even bother to take off his shoes before jumping face first into his mattress.

“_Fuuuuuuuck,” _he groans, the anguish in his voice only slightly muffled by his pillow. (Actually, it’s the pillow Richie usually uses. _Fuuuuuuuck). _

He’s so fucking stupid. He’s so fucking fucked up. He actually thought Richie was going to kiss him just then. How fucking delusional could he get?

Eddie sits up, sighing and pressing the heel of his palms to his forehead. This has gone too far. He thought he could handle all this, being in love with Richie, the looming future they’ve planned, but he can’t. He let himself slip up today. He shouldn’t have let himself enjoy the day like that. Shouldn’t have allowed himself to live in such a selfish allusion. Because now he’s projected his feelings onto Richie. Now he can’t even delineate reality from his twisted wants.

Even though he was trying not to, Eddie knows what he has to do. Just for now, and maybe shit will get easier in time for graduation and moving to New York, granted they get in. He needs to be away from Richie right now. It’s too dangerous, too greedy, to be around him right now.

\---

There’s probably not a super great way to go about pushing away your best friend for a bit because you’re embarrassingly and wholeheartedly in love with them, but Eddie thinks he’s doing an alright job. At least, definitely better than last time when he freaked out after Halloween when he first thought about kissing Richie. He’s trying not to repeat those same mistakes. He won’t totally freeze out Richie, just put some distance between them.

Richie still drives him to and from school, because doing otherwise would be weird, but Eddie often keeps quiet in the passenger seat. Sometimes he pulls out the book he’s supposed to be reading for English, though honestly reading in the car makes him feel sick and he just turns the pages randomly, not actually reading anything. Other times he’ll bring his stats homework and “pour over the notes”, telling Richie that he’s studying for AP exams.

When Richie first picked him up that following Monday (Eddie skipped the losers’ study session yesterday), Eddie couldn’t stop thinking about the last time he was in the car. How shitty he was for misreading the situation and projecting his feelings onto Richie. For pretending like they wanted the same thing. How could he have thought Richie would ever want to kiss him?

He tries to carry on somewhat normally, but he flinches a couple times when Richie touches him in class, shame swallowing his body whole. (_“Sorry, I’m just feeling super anxious lately,” _he said as an excuse—which wasn’t a complete lie).

If there’s an upside to having a strict, overbearing mother, it’s that Eddie can use her insane rules as a viable excuse to get out of hanging out afterschool. Really, sometimes it’s not even an excuse, since she’s trying to hold onto him for as long as possible before graduation. He reminds Richie that he’s trying to be on his best behavior right now, so he skips out on study hangouts at the coffeeshop and movie nights at Bill’s.

The hardest part is the nights Richie sneaks through his window. Eddie warned him about doing it too often so that his mom thinks he’s being good, but he also doesn’t think he can tell Richie not to come at all. And truthfully, Eddie doesn’t really want to let go of that completely, either.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

Those nights, Eddie squeezes himself as far against the wall as he can, which is not saying much. At first, he thought he would face the wall, have his nose pressed against the white paint, but that was stupid, and he still wanted to see Richie. For their eyes to meet in the darkness before Eddie forces his shut. It’s tough, the distance between them, when not too long ago Richie was cradling his face and they were making promises to each other. But it’s necessary.

Richie seems to notice Eddie’s change in demeanor, which Eddie knows because Richie’s said so. That was after a week or so of frowning and furrowed brows and blasting Eddie’s favorite songs in the car to cheer him up.

_(“You’ve been acting weird as hell lately Eds.”_

_"I know, it’s just my mom and shit. Don’t worry"). _

He can tell Richie’s still a little concerned, but the other boy doesn’t bring it up anymore.

Now after two weeks of exhaustedly dodging Richie’s affectionate hands and invites to hang out while trying not to be a total asshole, and also making sure his mom is happy, it’s Friday and Eddie’s free.

Sort of. After coming home from school and giving her approximately ten billion cheek kisses while shooing her out the front door, she’s gone to Massachusetts for the weekend to attend the book signing with her club. But he knows she’ll be texting and calling frequently to make sure he’s okay and not doing something she wouldn’t approve of. Plus, she asked their neighbor to check in throughout the day, even giving her a key, but Eddie knows she won’t.

Once she’s finally gone, Eddie falls back into the couch, breathing out a sigh of relief. No stupid soap opera or game show blaring on the television, none of her ranting and nagging, just silence. But after a few minutes, he starts to feel awkward in there, since he’s almost never sitting on the couch unless his mom makes him hang out with her. Eddie thought he’d take advantage of the emptiness, but he just wants to make himself a snack and go back up into his room, his safe space.

A plate of apple slices now devoured, Eddie tidies up his room and blares his pop music, letting himself spin and jump until he feels tired. He scrolls through social media, and then some apartment listings for NYC, wistfully looking at picturesque buildings in West Village they’ll never be able to afford.

As he fantasizes about the two of them living in a one bedroom (they’re definitely gonna have to get a studio) with large windows and beautiful floors, his phone buzzes. Eddie groans, thinking it’s his mom, but it’s actually the losers’ group chat.

** _the losers club_ **

** ben: ** _do you guys wanna come over in 30 ish for a game night? my mom’s making her red velvet cupcakes and i might order pizzaaaaaaaa_

**bev: **_i’m there! _

**bev: **_n by that i mean, i’m already here ;)_

**richie: **_gross_

**richie: **_but those cupcakes FUCK so i’ll b there 2 ;) _

**richie: **_also get pineapple pls _

**stanley: **_Yeah, we can come. Prepare to lose._

**stanley: **_Also, don’t order pineapple pizza._

**ben: **_yay!!!_

**ben: **_(not to the losing part… but maybe to your dislike of pineapple pizza)_

**eddie: **_whos we? _

**stanley: **_Mike, Bill, and me. _

**eddie: **_why cant they text for themselves????_

**stanley: **_…_

**stanley: **_They’re busy._

Eddie raises a brow, not sure what that means. Maybe studying? And what do those mysterious ellipses mean? He’s brought out of his ponderings with another text.

**ben: **_so eddie can you come??_

On one hand, he finally has the freedom to go wherever he wants this weekend. But on the other, Richie will be there. And he needs put as much distance between them as possible until his brain finally calms the fuck down a bit and learns how to deal with his feelings. Until his heart stops being such a dumbass.

And since they don’t know his mom is out of town, he has the perfect reason to get out of it.

**eddie: **_sorry i cant mom put me on lockdown again. have fun!_

He feels a little bad for lying, but it’s for the best. Besides, he would’ve probably ruined the night anyways with his competitiveness and constant calls from his mom interrupting their games.

Eddie changes into some pajamas, that maroon hoodie Richie was obsessed with in tenth grade and his old P.E. sweatpants (thank fuck he doesn’t have to take that this year). He plops onto his bed, sitting with his back against the wall as he does a little more research, watching videos of NYC apartment hunting and lifestyle, each sweeping shot of the bustling city stirring up more excitement within him.

His mom calls at a gas station along the way and makes sure he’s getting settled for bed (the sun just finished setting, like, twenty minutes ago) and talks his ear off about bad drivers and the expectations she has for his behavior. Eddie barely listens, playing a game on his phone as she talks and saying ‘yeah’ and ‘mhm’ when she finishes a statement.

When the call is finally over, Eddie goes and makes himself some hot cocoa and pulls up one of his favorite wholesome movies, a rom com he watched with Ben forever ago. Turning on his string lights, burning a nice candle, and cocooning himself in soft, fuzzy blankets, Eddie presses play and loses himself in some other people’s romantic drama. A story where they both fall in love with each other, where they end up together all happily ever after. It’s nice to pretend that exists.

The movie is a little over the halfway point when the sound of loud, angry tapping against Eddie’s window steals his attention. Richie, because who else would it be, keeps rapping his knuckles against the glass, getting increasingly more forceful until Eddie’s afraid he’s gonna break the fucking thing.

Eddie groans, closing his laptop and kicking off his blankets. He unlocks the window and pushes it up. “Jesus Rich, could you calm the fuck down?”

Richie climbs in, barely waiting for Eddie to move away from the window. Once he closes it and shuts out the cold air, Richie huffs.

“Okay, what the fuck is up Eddie?”

“What?” Eddie sits back down on his bed, confused at Richie’s frustration.

Richie starts pacing around the room, his arms waving as he speaks and voice growing in volume. “We were in the middle of Monopoly, and I thought to myself, ‘Hey, something’s wrong here’. And it’s not that Ben kept ‘forgetting’ to charge Beverly whenever she lands on his properties, or that Bill and Stan repeatedly accused each other of cheating even though Mike was _so_ obviously distracting Stan and stealing money. It wasn’t even the fact that I was deprived of pineapple pizza. What’s missing here? Go ahead, guess!”

“The… cupcakes?”

“No, not the cupcakes, I ate like half of those already,” Richie rolls his eyes, stopping to stand in front of Eddie and crossing his arms. “No, what was missing was _you_. I was like, ‘if Eddie was here, he’d notice that Mike was cheating and be flipping the board over in rage’. And _then_ I remembered something! Your mom is supposed to be gone for the weekend with her stupid book club, and we were going to do something. So that lame ass excuse you sent for not coming tonight? Fucking bullshit.”

Shit. He forgot that he told Richie about his mom leaving.

“So you just left in the middle of the game?” Eddie says, trying to ignore Richie calling him out.

Richie scoffs, “Yeah, nothing was happening anyways. So, what is it? Why didn’t you want to come?”

Eddie fiddles with the strings of his hoodie, fixing his stare at the floor. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Then why didn’t you just say that?”

“Richie…” Eddie says, trying to calm him down.

Richie throws his hands up in the air, making a frustrated noise. “No, seriously, what the fuck is up with you lately Eds? You’ve been acting so fucking weird the past couple weeks. You keep pushing me away, keep pushing _all of us _away, and you’re always, like, staring off in silence and avoiding every single fucking question.”

“Nothing, it’s not a big deal—”

“No!” Richie cries out, pacing the room again. “Don’t start with that shit Eddie, I can’t handle it. Don’t tell me it’s nothing, or just something you need to ‘deal with on your own’. Because you’re not dealing, obviously. And don’t tell me it’s college bullshit, because we just—we _just_ fucking talked about it!”

Eddie shakes his head, standing up. Richie’s really angry for once. This is actually serious. He has to make it better, right now, before everything blows up. “But it _is _college, I’m just having doubts about it, if I can… make it. If it’s the right choice.”

“Why?! It’s out of our hands now dude. NYU is your _dream school_.”

“I know, I know,” Eddie says, running a hand through his hair, “It’s just…”

“It’s me, isn’t it? The problem is me.”

Eddie’s heart stops for a moment, his body frozen in place. “What?”

He can’t know. There’s no way.

“Because every time I—” Richie stops by his desk, so overwhelmed he can barely speak, his words coming out as a shaky mess. “I—I don’t know, get too close or think that you… I fuck it up and you push me away, which is what you’re doing right now.”

“It’s not—Well, okay, it’s sort of you.”

And shit, he hadn’t meant to say that. Can he get it together for just one fucking second?

Richie scoffs, taken aback. “Oh, okay! Cool! Great! Fucking awesome!”

“No, shit, fuck, not like that,” Eddie sighs, swallowing back the emotions bubbling up in his chest. Because it _is_ Richie. And maybe he can explain it without saying the biggest part of it. Maybe Mike’s right. “It’s like… about you and me, and like, how I think about you versus what you think about me and shit.”

Richie face twists up in confusion. “What the _fuck _does that mean?!”

“I mean that, like… All I can think about is doing something stupid and us falling apart out there and ruining everything. And I… I don’t want to lose you Richie. I can’t,” Eddie own voice breaks, so emotionally charged and at verging on his breaking point. He can’t say anymore. He’s getting too close to the truth.

There’s a moment of silence, and Eddie’s not sure what’s going on in Richie’s head right now. Is he going to drop it now? Is he going to go back to yelling? Is he going to say that it’s not even worth trying then? That they should just stop now?

“Eds,” Richie takes a small step forward, “You’re not gonna lose me, idiot. I care about you. Really. And there’s no way you’re gonna mess shit up, at least, you’re no more likely to fuck it up than I am.”

Eddie sighs. “You can’t know that.”

“I do. Because I wouldn’t care if you dicked it all up anyways. I don’t care that you’re snappy and always ready to bite my fucking head off. I don’t care that you’re judgmental and sometimes the biggest hypocrite I know. I don’t mind calming you down from anxiety attacks or pulling you out of your own head. And I don’t give a shit that sometimes you’re the most _oblivious_ motherfucker alive!” Richie says, laughing mirthlessly, “Because I care about you. Because all of those, I dunno, flaws or whatever, make you who you are. And I care about you anyways.”

Blinking away the tears forming in his eyes, Eddie takes a deep breath. Each word goes straight to his heart, his stupid fucking heart that’s in love with Richie even though it shouldn’t be. He hates it. He hates that Richie means what he says but he doesn’t have a clue how Eddie feels, how Eddie is betraying their friendship. He hates that he wants to let himself believe every single word even though he’s a fucking fraud.

“Stop that,” Eddie finally says, his voice going dark but still so fragile. “Don’t fucking say that.”

Richie’s eyes widen, and then he stands up a little straighter, a determined look settling over his features. “Why? It’s true. I’m not taking it back.”

“You just don’t know, okay, Rich?! You don’t know all of my flaws and how much I’m already fucking every single goddamn thing in my life up! You—you say that you don’t care but if you knew you would hate me!” Eddie shouts, his voice starting to go hoarse.

“That’s impossible,” Richie shakes his head.

Eddie throws his hands up, stepping back, he’s too close, he’s too close in every single way. “You don’t understand.”

“So make me understand, Eds!” Richie yells, exasperated, “I’m tired of you telling me I won’t get it, or I can’t handle it. It’s like you don’t trust me enough.”

“Of course I trust you!” Eddie snaps.

It’s himself he doesn’t trust.

Richie pinches the bridge of his nose. “Whatever it is Eddie, just fucking spit it out! I can handle it!”

“Okay!” Eddie gestures angrily with his shaky hands, his face warming and getting redder, “Okay, you really wanna fucking know?!”

“Yes!”

Eddie takes a deep breath, and he can’t control his thoughts, or his mouth, or his body anymore. Everything he’s been feeling comes pouring out.

“My whole fucking life and understanding of who I am has been flipped around the past few months. I’ve been dealing with dumbass feelings and hating myself _every single fucking day_ because of them,” Eddie’s voice starts low but passionate, but grows louder and more unhinged as he begins to pace. “Whenever I look at you it’s like my heart is trying to crack my ribs and claw its way out of my chest to get to your own. And that’s so fucking scary. And what might be even scarier is that sometimes that’s the only thing that makes sense to me, the only thing that feels right.

“It’s fucking eating me up that I think of you like this, and you still talk to me. You still let me sit in your passenger seat and drive me around and sneak in here and put your arms around me and make promises and you don’t know how much it means to me. You don’t know how you make me feel happy and scared and angry at the same time, and how you can make me laugh so hard I can’t breathe. You don’t know how much I love every single moment with you. How much I wish we had more.

“What’s _so fucking weird_ is that I love the person you make me be every day, the way you make me feel, but I hate it too. I hate it because I shouldn’t feel this way. I hate it because I know it’s going to come crumbling down and I’m going to lose you because of this ugly part of me. But it’s so hard to not say it. _That’s_ why I keep pushing you away Richie. Because I don’t wanna lose you, not ever. Because I fucking love you, okay?!”

Eddie gasps for air, finally stopping his pacing. He was so engrossed in his ranting that he didn’t notice the tears falling from his eyes and rolling down his full cheeks, or how rough and hoarse his voice became from the strain of shouting and the weight of his emotions.

Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. _FUCK!_

He said it. He confessed and he can’t take it back. The one thing he was trying to keep himself from doing with this whole thing, and he did it.

Finally, he looks at Richie, _really _looks at him. He had snuck glances at Richie while he ranted, but they were short, his mind on one track that couldn’t afford to be stopped by the anger that was sure to be behind his eyes. When he stares at him now, Richie looks stunned. His mouth is hanging open and his breath is caught. The pupils of his big brown eyes are wide and glistening, and his eyebrows disappear into his curly mess of hair until they dip furrow down and draw together.

A string of incomprehensible noises leaves Richie’s mouth until he finally stammers out, “What?”

Eddie can feel his heart breaking, but he’s still so angry and scared and caught up in everything that he continues, his words blending together in rapid speed that he has no idea if Richie even understands him, which might be a good thing.

“And I know that you probably hate me now and never wanna see me ever again, which is, like, cool, and fine—I mean it’s not cool and fine, but I get it, I would too if I wasn’t the fucking gay loser in love with his best friend—but I meant what I said. That’s the truth and I can’t change it no matter how much I wish I could. I _wish_ to _shit_ that I could get rid of my feelings so that we could just be normal, that we wouldn’t have to deal with this.”

Richie takes a small step forward, and Eddie’s worried he’s gonna scream in his face or storm off without saying anything, so he puts a hand up and keeps rambling nervously. “And like, I’ll leave you the fuck alone and give back everything I have of yours; your hoodies and your beanie and the bike gear and that graphic novel and the smelly orange pencil I stole from your desk in third grade—”

“Say it again,” Richie interrupts him softly, so gentle that Eddie can tell he’s having a hard time keeping control of his voice.

Eddie swallows anxiously. “I stole your smelly pencil, the orange one, and I think the one that smells like grapes, but I broke it years ago, so sorry, I can’t give it back—”

“No,” Richie screws his eyes shut, looking pained. He opens them again, and inches forward once more. “The other thing. Like, _the thing_.”

Eddie inhales sharply, his lungs constricting and burning as he faces a decision. He could try to take it all back. He could say he didn’t really mean it. He could downplay his feelings. But what good would that do? Richie won’t believe him. And maybe, even though everything between them has been destroyed, it felt sort of good to get it off his chest. He’s terrified of Richie’s reaction, of losing his best friend and being alone for the rest of high school, for college. But he doesn’t have to worry about him finding out anymore.

And it’s the truth. Like he said, he can’t change how he feels.

He sniffles, tears still glistening in his eyes and making his throat thick, but he squares his shoulders.

“I love you,” Eddie repeats, his voice cracking, “I’m in love with you, Richie.”

Richie lets out a shaky breath. He has that look that Eddie’s knows by heart now, though still doesn’t know the meaning of. The emotions trapped in his brown eyes, teary like Eddie’s, imperceptible but so profound and overwhelming.

And then he opens his mouth and lets out a wet laugh. He throws his hand over his eyes as it turns into a silent wheeze. “Oh my fucking god!”

Eddie feels himself growing angry again. Because he was expecting Richie to hate him and yell at him for being an awful friend, but he wasn’t expecting Richie to _fucking laugh_ at him.

“Fuck you,” he spits out.

“No, oh my god, I just,” Richie composes himself, but he can’t suppress the wide grin on his face. “Like. Me too, Eds. _Me fucking too_.”

Eddie shakes his head, not understanding. “What?”

“I’m laughing because this is so…” Richie looks up at the ceiling and exhales a laugh, “_Fuck._ I’ve been in love with you since like, the end of junior year—or at least, that’s when I finally realized it. Honestly, I probably have been for way longer. And lately I’ve been wondering if maybe you felt the same way, because you always looked at me like _that _and said the most accidentally romantic shit _ever, _but I know that you never realized what you were saying or what it did to me.”

“What, no, _you_ were the one who was doing that!”

Richie laughs, “See! You didn’t even realize until now. That’s the thing, we’re so fucking stupid. We were both freaking out about the other person realizing we’re in love with them. And look where we are right now.”

“Wait,” Eddie blinks, finally processing what Richie’s been saying. “You… love me too?”

“Yeah. _Yeah_,” Richie says, surer of himself the second time, like he can’t believe he’s finally saying it. Eddie understands. Tears well up in Richie’s eyes, but these one’s seem to be because he’s happy, because he’s relieved. “Eds, I… Every night I came through that window and crawled into bed I was, like, going fucking insane. Because with you, in this room I felt so safe and… _known_. All of the other bullshit and the people who don’t understand me fell away every time I saw you curled up in bed, every time you scooted over for me no matter what time it was. And all I wanted to do was hold you and make you understand how much this means to me. Whenever we’d wake up and you’d be snoring on my chest—”

Eddie interjects, “Hey—”

“Did _I _interrupt _your_ rambling love confession?”

Point taken, Eddie stays silent and nods for Richie to continue.

“Just… waking up next to you felt so right, like, this is how it’s supposed to be. That you should always be so peaceful and unbothered, and that the world should just be us two. That’s what that promise was. I wanted… I wanted to wake up with you forever, whatever way that was, because that’s what felt right.”

And there’s that pull. That pull he’s always ignored and pushed away. Each word resonates so deeply with Eddie, warming his heart and twisting on his stomach. He feels the same exact fucking way. If his word vomit confession and basically every single moment of his teenage life is anything to go by, his words won’t be able to convey how much he feels. He won’t be able to express how much he understands, how much he wants that too. Eddie’s body is brimming with so much emotion that he’s shaking, and he needs to let it out.

There’s that pull that he’s always ignored. Until now.

Eddie closes the few steps between them and stands just a bit on his toes, taking Richie’s face in his hands and bringing him down just enough so they press their lips together.

All those times he’s thought about this, Eddie never really considered what it would be like, how it would feel. It was such a far away and distant concept that he never thought he’d get, so what would be the point in torturing himself?

It’s not perfect, he knows that. They’re inexperienced and unsure and overemotional, the kiss tasting of their salty tears and Richie’s glasses getting in the way. And the kiss isn’t long or much more than brush of their lips. Like they’re still not sure if they’re dreaming or if this is really happening. But it’s still so much more than he ever expected. There’s a sense of relief that comes with the meeting of their lips, _finally finally finally_.

They slowly break apart after a moment, heads and bodies still close as Eddie’s hands hold either side of Richie’s face. Richie smiles, a surprised laugh bubbling out of his throat. Their eyes meet, excited and tender and loving. Eddie laughs too, and he presses another small kiss to Richie’s lips, lowering off his toes when he pulls away.

Something changes in Richie’s eyes, his pupils widening and focusing on Eddie. He gently lifts Eddie’s chin with his hand and kisses him deeply, more passionate and intently than before. _This_ is real. It’s still awkward, the ferocity of the kiss and the teeming emotions that have been building up for months finally boiling over leading to a mess of lips and teeth. But it feels right. He doesn’t feel wrong for the way every bit of his skin feels electric right now, how his veins feel like they’re bursting with brightness. He doesn’t feel bad for the soft hum he lets out as Richie’s tongue swipes across his lips, or how his hands find themselves moving up Richie’s neck and up into his dark curls.

Richie stops the kiss, breathing hard and looking at Eddie’s face titled up towards him. His chest heaves and Eddie wraps his hand around Richie’s wrist, his pulse point thrumming fast and erratically. For a moment, the only sound in the room is their harsh breathing and the sound of the crickets outside. For a moment, it’s just them in the ambient yellow glow of Eddie’s string lights, appreciating one another.

That moment is just long enough for Richie to collect himself and then they’re crashing into each other again, chasing after something that once felt so out of reach.

It’s starting to be uncomfortable standing up with their height difference though, and it’s getting intense, so Richie starts guiding them towards Eddie’s bed. Still kissing, he pushes them down onto the mattress, but it’s overzealous, and Eddie ends up falling more than he was meant to, the back of his head banging against the wall.

“What the fuck Rich?!”

“Shit!” Richie cries out, holding the back of Eddie’s head, “Are you okay?”

Eddie winces, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

The worried expression on Richie’s face fades when he’s sure Eddie is telling the truth. They lock eyes for a second, and then Eddie’s tipping his head back into hysterical laughter.

“Oh my fucking god,” Richie exclaims as he joins in, holding his stomach as his body shakes with laughter.

Eddie laughs into Richie’s chest, the push of his body making them lay on to mattress. “Of course! Of fucking course!”

Richie chuckles, looking up at Eddie. He runs his fingers through Eddie’s hair, and Eddie rests his head on Richie’s chest, the two boys watching each other.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Richie whispers.

Eddie hums into his sweater, encouraging him to continue.

“I was gonna kiss you on Valentine’s day.”

Eddie sits up, mouth hanging open. “I knew it!” He shouts, gently smacking Richie’s shoulder, “I fucking knew it!”

Richie grins, sitting up on his elbows and reaching up to kiss Eddie again. “I think this is way better.”

“What, the shouting at each other and the blubbering incoherent mess of me spilling my feelings?” Eddie quips.

“No, just… That it was here. That we know we love each other,” Richie says, smiling fondly up at him.

Eddie grins, intertwining their fingers. He listens to that pull on his heart again and leans down to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GKNRLGKNRLgnelnegrlnLRGNLRGNlenrg okay so hi. um hehe. tbh i'm very very nervous about posting this update and how it will be received.... idk if ppl will think it's too fast (we're at like 90k lmao but) or executed poorly, but at the end of the day this is what i've planned from the start and i think i like it so. if u did not that's okay but pls be gentle <3 and there's still some more Story to get through so it's not over!!! elgerkg god okay anyways im gonna go freak out that we're finally at this point love yall thanks for the support you can chat with me over at mikeshanlon on tumblr unless it's to tell me this sucks okay byeeeeeeeeee <3


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